


DEPRIVE / SATURATE

by keptein



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Depression, M/M, Multi, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptein/pseuds/keptein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone once told Koutarou that being in the military meant learning to hurry up and wait.</p><p>He thinks it sounds a lot like being in a band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this last summer, before i was diagnosed with depression. when i returned to it this summer it was blatantly obvious that that is, inherently, what it's about, so i'm finishing it as a part of my recovery. hopefully it's a nice read too. they're in a band, after all. thank you to: nikki, for encouraging this brain hell fic. sid, for telling me about pedal notes and generally being my musical touch stone. bishop, for being there for me when i went through all of this. for still being there for me. i love you.
> 
>  **warnings:** bokuto drinks a lot; has suicidal/self-harming thoughts (not frequently, and doesn't act on them); is generally pretty heavily depressed. there is also brief mention of animal death (fish).

cover by [knockedforsix](http://knockedforsix.tumblr.com)

 

Someone once told Koutarou that a band is like a machine; it needs to be well-oiled and smooth, and the drive needs to come from within. But Koutarou doesn’t know anything about machines, and that someone never lasted through her first and only record deal, so he doesn’t give the statement much thought.

They’re halfway through their current tour now, the remaining month stretching out like one long, winding road spent half-asleep on the bus just for the few minutes on stage, feeling alive and alert with a rush unlike any other.

Someone once told Koutarou that being in the military meant learning to hurry up and wait.

That one, he remembers. He thinks it sounds a lot like being in a band.

“Kuroo and Akaashi are fucking in the bus again,” Lev informs him when they’re packing up, taking the amp Koutarou’s carrying.

He swears. “Great. We’re almost done here, right?”

“Yeah, I can do the rest.”

“Where’s Tsukishima?”

Lev waves in the direction of the greenroom. “He’s listening,” he warns, but Koutarou’s never been afraid of interrupting Tsukishima, and he doesn’t intend to start now.

He leaves Lev to it and heads to the green room, not even bothering to knock when he enters. Tsukishima is sitting in a chair, his big, expensive headphones over his ears. His eyes are closed, and he looks reverential, face turned up as he sways minutely with the music. It’s a familiar sight. Koutarou taps his knee on the way to the couch, throwing himself on it with a sigh. Tsukishima opens his eyes, frowning, and pulls off his headphones once he sees that it’s Koutarou. The tinny sound of their own single streams from them, and Koutarou pulls a face upon hearing it.

“Hey,” he says. “That from tonight?”

Tsukishima shakes his head. “Last week’s encore.”

Koutarou nods, relaxing further into the couch and tipping his head back. “Kuroo and Akaashi are fucking in the bus again,” he tells the ceiling. “Lev said.”

“Disgusting,” Tsukishima says, but his voice is tired. He looks tired, too, as tired as Koutarou feels. “They’d better air it out.”

“Yeah,” Koutarou sighs. His eyes feel scratchy and his head is empty, but he remembers leaving some beers here, and digs around until he finds a couple behind the couch. “You want one?”

“No,” Tsukishima says. “Do you really have to drink after every show?”

Koutarou frowns and takes a long sip before he replies. “Only when we’re not performing tomorrow, and we’re not, so what’s the big deal?”

For a moment, all he can hear is Tsukishima’s singing from the headphones, Kuroo’s guitar faintly audible. “Nothing,” Tsukishima says finally, the real Tsukishima. “Forget it.”

Koutarou grunts in acknowledgement of the non-apology, scrubbing a hand over his face, and Tsukishima slides his headphones back onto his ears.

They sit in silence for a while, Tsukishima in his own constructed world while Koutarou takes long pulls of his beer. He doesn’t want to go out. He doesn’t want to see Kuroo or Akaashi, knowing that they’ve fucked moments before. Koutarou always ends up looking for hickeys and scratches and other evidence, even though it hurts his throat when he finds it.

“Do you think I’m a masochist?” he asks Tsukishima.

Tsukishima doesn’t hear, eyes closed again, and Koutarou pokes him with his foot. Tsukishima takes his headphones off, annoyed. “What?”

“Do you think I’m a good bass player?”

“Yeah. You’re decent.”

“Thanks,” Koutarou says sincerely, and Tsukishima’s shoulders loosen slightly as he goes back to his music.

Tsukishima doesn’t ask about Koutarou’s thought processes. Probably because he thinks they don’t exist, Koutarou thinks with a slight smile. It doesn’t offend him. In a way, it’s kinda reassuring. Tsukishima only expects him to know his melodies, and to come up with rough, ambitious runs that Tsukishima himself can polish and file down. Koutarou doesn’t have to be anything more than that.

“Tsukki? Bokuto?” Kuroo knocks on the door sometime later, after Koutarou’s finished his beer and started on another one. He opens it, and Koutarou takes in his appearance with a critical eye. His hair isn’t much more mussed than usual, but his lips are red, and there’s a gleam in his gaze that Koutarou may be imagining. He absently wonders if Kuroo’s lips are red from kissing or from sucking hickies into Akaashi’s skin or from sucking Akaashi’s cock.

The beer Koutarou is holding tastes like the morning-after. Like lukewarm regret. That could be a lyric, he thinks without feeling. “What’s up?”

“The 26th is our last show,” Kuroo says. “Me ‘n Akaashi came up with some closer ideas.”

“Cool.”

“Tsukki?”

Koutarou helpfully pokes Tsukishima again, and he takes his headphones off, looking at Kuroo with a bored expression. “Yes?”

“Closer ideas,” Kuroo says again. “We got ‘em. You wanna come hear? Akaashi’s in the van, he’s got the notes.”

“Is it aired out?” Tsukishima asks dryly, and Koutarou snorts a laugh into his beer.

“Yeah,” Kuroo says with a smirk. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to smell any grown-up smells.”

Tsukishima doesn’t acknowledge it, standing up. After a moment Koutarou does too, downing the last of his beer and setting it on the table before following Kuroo out to the van.

Akaashi’s sitting on the beat-up couch, still writing things down when Koutarou, Kuroo and Tsukishima enter. His hair is matted with sweat from the stage and from his activities afterwards, but his lips aren’t as red as Kuroo’s. Koutarou notices this even though it doesn’t help him draw any conclusions at all.

The van smells a little like sex. It mostly smells like stale air and people.

“I have an idea for _Don’t Touch the Sky,”_ Akaashi says. “A heavier version.”

“Can’t mess with _the Sky_ ,” Koutarou says, sitting down next to him. “That stuff’s like gospel to the old timers.”

“It’s overplayed,” Akaashi says irritably. “We’re sick of it, and so are they. I want to do the drums like this instead.” He demonstrates with the pen and his hand against the table, tapping out a rhythm that’s double time, aggressive and loud.

“No,” Tsukishima says immediately. “We can't be the metalcore band of your dreams, sorry.”

“Changing the beat isn't metalcore,” Akaashi hisses, and Koutarou falls back against the couch with a sigh.

“I hate this argument,” he tells no one.

“If anything, we should go softer,” Tsukishima argues. “Let Kuroo shine.”

“What, go indie? As if.”

“We should just stick to it the way it is,” Koutarou says weakly. He kicks Kuroo, who looks bored. “What do you think?”

“Huh? Uh.. Akaashi's beat is good. Tsukki’s suggestion is good too, though.”

“Thanks, bro. Stellar input.”

“What are you getting prissy at me for?” Kuroo says, frowning, and Koutarou sighs and looks away. He wishes he was drunker, for an excuse to go hide away until soberity relieved him.

“Whatever.”

“What about doing _I Can't See_ as the first encore song?” Tsukishima suggests. _I Can't See_ is from their newest album, slower and softer than most.

“Buddy,” Kuroo says. “I usually think that song's great for getting in the mood, but don't you think people will be a little tired of you waxing poetic about Yamaguchi?”

“Not every song I write is about Yamaguchi!” Tsukishima protests, pushing his glasses up his nose at the very same moment, and he looks so much like a caricature of himself that Koutarou starts to laugh.

“Not anymore, anyway,” he teases, and Tsukishima’s shoulders ease even as he huffs.

Akaashi looks calmer too, less eager to rip out Tsukishima’s throat for contradicting him, and Koutarou’s chest unwinds a little. “We'll do it like we've been doing it,” he says. “Just with even more feeling. It's not for ages, anyway, there's no rush.”

“Bokuto's Magical Feel Good Time,” Kuroo says. “Do you guys know--”

“Yes, it was the band name until we joined,” Akaashi says.

“We know,” Tsukishima says, exchanging a glance with Akaashi, silently agreeing on a truce for now. “It's terrible.”

“Starring Kuroo’s Fantastic Fingers - they'll make you see stars,” Koutarou adds, starting to laugh before he even finishes the sentence.

Akaashi snorts, smiling. “That's why you guys never got a deal before we came along.”

“Although we weren't liars,” Kuroo tells him, winking.  It takes a moment for Koutarou to catch up - Kuroo's fingers making Akaashi see stars. Oh.

“Shut up,” Akaashi says back, still smiling. Koutarou wants to go throw up behind the bus.

“PDA reminder,” Tsukishima says, bored. “I'm going to bed. Good night, everyone.” He pauses. “We played well.”

“Aw, Tsukki, your sweet words make my heart flutter,” Koutarou says half-heartedly. Tsukishima gives him a wave before disappearing, and then he's left with Akaashi and Kuroo, who are still making eyes at each other. “Good night,” he tells them, standing up.

“You're hitting the sack so early?” Kuroo asks, surprised.

Akaashi frowns. “We don't want to chase you away. Feel free to stay.”

“No, no,” Koutarou says, even though some fucked up little part of him wants to stay like this and wallow in self-misery, almost a part of it all and yet so obviously on the fringes. It's an exquisite form of torture, watching Kuroo and Akaashi fall in love. “I'm too beat. I'll see you guys tomorrow, though. G’night.”

“Good night,” they echo after him. Koutarou resolves to start drinking the moment he's conscious again.

*

The rest of the tour passes like this: hurry, hurry, wait. Argument, argument, peace. On stage, Koutarou feels like part something bigger than himself, but as soon as he steps off it, the emptiness creeps back in.

“Hey, Bokuto,” Kuroo says late one night, a week before their last show. They're sitting on the grass a stone's throw from the bus. Kuroo lies on his back, staring up at the stars while Bokuto drinks mechanically from his beer, looking towards the horizon.

“What?”

“Do you remember that time we got high? With the girl from Hokkaido.”

Koutarou remembers - eager, unsteady hands fumbling into his pants, the scratching of Kuroo's unshaven cheek as they kissed sloppily. He raises his beer. “I drink to forget,” he jokes weakly, and Kuroo snorts. “Didn't you hook up with her, anyway?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says after a pause. “I lost her number, though.”

“Poor girl. But you've got Akaashi now.” Koutarou won't let himself forget that. He won't let Kuroo forget either.

Kuroo hums. “Yeah,” he says. “Kinda.”

Koutsrou opens his mouth to ask, then shuts it again, drinking instead. For once, he'll stop picking at this festering wound.

They sit in silence, listening to the bustle of life dying down, everything else fading away until the only sound left is Akaashi's voice, far enough away to be unintelligible.

“Who's he talking to?” Koutarou asks Kuroo.

“His parents. Something about a vacation when we get back.”

“Huh.” Koutarou thinks about calling his mother. He thinks about telling her everything for a moment, entertaining the thought of starting the conversation with ‘Hey, mom, it's Koutarou, everything is awful and I don't feel like existing.’ ‘Are you drinking again,’ she'd say, and he'd hang up.

“I don't think I'm a bad person,” he tells Kuroo.

“I don't think so either,” Kuroo says. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Koutarou says and drinks from his beer.

*

Koutarou has nightmares where he sits on a chair in the middle of a roaring crowd, watching his own band perform. There's a younger him on stage, grinning and pressing kisses to Kuroo's cheek, throwing Akaashi fond looks and dancing with Tsukishima between verses. He starts to melt into the chair, starts to ooze and sink until he's one with the black shadows that surround him, a miserable monster that's trapped in place, forced to stare up at himself.

If he downs two beers, immediately goes to piss and then hits the hay, he learns he can black out quickly enough to sleep dreamlessly until morning.

*

“It's happening!” Koutarou yells, coming into the green room. “They're setting up for us!”

“You don't say,” Tsukishima says dryly, drumming his fingers on his knee.

“C’mon, it's our last show! Aren't you excited?”

“Not particularly.”

Koutarou huffs, disappointed, and moves over to sit next to Akaashi, who has his eyes closed and is drumming on an invisible set, practicing. “‘Kaashi. You're excited!”

“Mm,” Akaashi says, slowing to a stop. “The last show usually feels different.”

“That's more like it! Kuroo?”

“I'm excited to go home,” Kuroo says honestly, and Koutarou kicks him.

“Excitement! Excitement!”

Kuroo groans, head falling back. “This is like our fifteenth tour,” he says. “Can't you calm down, huh?”

“Nope,” says Koutarou, grinning. “I'm too excited. I wanna crowd surf!”

“Sure,” Kuroo says.

“I'm not paying your medical bills,” Akaashi says.

Tsukishima says nothing, looking like he's off in his own world.

*

 _“Can't touch the sky,”_ the crowd roars along with Tsukishima three hours later. Sweat is dripping down Koutarou’s face, making his eyes sting and his lips taste salty when he licks them. His fingers are sliding down the thick strings of his bass guitar, callouses and sweat making them slippery. He goes through his run steadily, keeping pace with Akaashi's drums until the drop kicks in and he's allowed to go wild, their landscape of sound turning chaotic and quick-tempered as Kuroo plays his guitar solo, Koutarou fucking with the bass line in the background. The sound of Kuroo playing; the ruthless, demanding energy from the crowd; the lights in his eyes; it all combines to make Koutarou feel euphoric, it makes him so happy that the sheen in his eyes isn't just from the sweat, and he's glad he's not the one singing because his voice would break, but Tsukishima’s is steady as a rock as he sings, and he sings, and he sings -

And then it's over.

It's all over.

“Bokuto. Bokuto?”

He blinks. They're all sitting in Kuroo and Akaashi's hotel room, cross-legged on the double bed. “Yeah?”

“Did you fall asleep?” Kuroo asks with a smile. He's pouring shots of Jaegermeister, hands as steady around the flask as they are around the neck of his Fender.

“No,” says Koutarou. He eyes the alcohol. “What are we, fourteen?”

“Tsukki had a craving.”

“My throat is sore,” Tsukishima says. “Jaegermeister tastes like cough syrup.”

“Oh, that's a good idea,” Koutarou says. “Do you think it'll have the same effect?”

Akaashi snorts, taking his shot from Kuroo. “It's alcohol, Bokuto, not medicine.”

“Sometimes there's alcohol in medicine!”

“Let me guess, you know because you tried to drink it?” Akaashi says sharply. Koutarou blinks and frowns, mouth twisting.

“No…”

“C’mon, Keiji,” Kuroo says softly. “Let's just drink to a show well done.”

Akaashi shrugs. “Fine,” he says tightly, and empties his shot without waiting for Kuroo's countdown.

Koutarou does the same, then excuses himself go go sit on the bathroom floor and stare at his hands, wishing he could cry anywhere other than on stage.

*

They go out after Koutarou has come back out of the bathroom, face washed and subdued in demeanor. Akaashi doesn't apologise, but he rests his hand on Koutarou’s shoulder for a moment, and Koutarou’s treacherous body relaxes at the touch, even as he wants to tense up with anger.

Then there's a club, and fans, and Koutarou does shots he forgets to pay for, and he signs chests and breasts and cheeks, and just when he's about to get laid he goes and throws up, spending the last moments until morning asleep with his head on the toilet bowl.

“What happened last night?” he asks Tsukishima when his tongue finally unsticks from the roof of his mouth and the thought of speaking isn't too much to bear. They're packing up to prepare for the flight, Tsukishima neatly folding his clothes while Koutarou stuffs his belongings haphazardly into a bag.

“You got really drunk,” Tsukishima says, not bothering to look up. “Akaashi and Kuroo did too. Then you spent half an hour criticising the music and threatened to take out a hit on the DJ if he didn't change it.”

“Damn,” Koutarou says slowly. He's too numb to be embarrassed, but he does feel sorry for the fans who had to witness it.

“Don't worry,” Tsukishima says, stopping to look at him. “It was appalling.”

“Oh… that's something. ‘N Kuroo and Akaashi?”

“Danced, drank, and disappeared.”

“I came, I saw, I conquered…. only with I danced, I drank, I disappeared. New song title?”

“Maybe,” Tsukishima says with a slight smile. “We haven't had a club single in a long time.”

Koutarou taps his temple. “I'll remember it. What about you, what did you do yesterday?”

Tsukishima immediately starts folding clothes again, looking down. “I had some shots too, then I went outside for a phone call.”

“Aha,” Koutarou says, zipping up his bag. “Yamaguchi?”

Tsukishima nods, once.

“How is he?”

“Good.”

“You'll see him soon,” Koutarou says, a watered-down attempt at reassurance.

“I know,” Tsukishima says. “Are you looking forward to going home?”

What an insensitive question, Koutarou thinks. He thinks of his empty apartment with his empty fridge and his empty bed and his empty life. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I think so.”

Tsukishima looks uncertain for a moment before he nods, putting his suitcase on the floor. “There, I'm done.”

“Alright,” Koutarou says with false cheer. “Time to check if the lovebirds are on schedule too, huh? I can go check, then we can head down together.” He opens the door and wanders across the hallway, rapping his knuckles three times against the door. “Kuroo? Akaashi?”

He’s about to knock again when Akaashi opens the door, wet hair brushed away from his face.

“You look slick,” Koutarou comments, stepping past him without invitation. Kuroo is lounging on the double bed next to two suitcases, tapping intently on his phone. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Kuroo replies, not looking up. “This game Kenma sent me is ridiculous. I’ll show it to you on the flight.”

Koutarou perks up. “Really? That sounds good.”

“As long as you’re quiet about it,” Akaashi says.

“See, this is why we need our own plane! So Akaashi can sleep instead of ruining everyone’s fun.”

“Do you plan on paying for that with your mob connections, yakuza-san?” Akaashi asks, running a towel through his hair and ruffling the neat strands.

Koutarou frowns. “Eh?”

“Yesterday,” Akaashi says. “You don’t remember? When you were threatening the DJ, you kept saying that your brother was in with the yakuza.”

Koutarou laughs. “What? I don’t even have a brother.”

“We know,” Kuroo says dryly. “You were really proud of how you’d tricked him afterwards.”

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“No surprise there,” Akaashi says, but his tone is light, not biting. Koutarou grins nervously.

“Anyway, you guys ready to go? Tsukki’s waiting.”

“Just give me one second,” Kuroo says slowly, then he jumps up triumphantly and puts his phone in his pocket. “There! New high score.”

“Good job! I’m going to beat it on the plane, though,” Koutarou tells him.

“Uh, you can _try.”_

“Children, please,” Akaashi says drolly, making Koutarou laugh as they walk back to meet Tsukishima.

*

They touch down in Tokyo late that evening. On the plane, Kuroo had given Koutarou his phone and challenged him to beat his high score before moving to lie with his head in Akaashi’s lap.

“What are you doing?” Koutarou had asked, confused.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Kuroo had said, making himself comfortable. “Sorry, man. But it’s not really a two-player kind of thing anyway.”

“Right,” Koutarou had said, holding Kuroo’s phone in his hands. He had looked at the way Akaashi absently stroked Kuroo’s hair as he slept and felt acid rising up his throat, stinging and bitter.

Now, he’s unlocking the front door to his apartment with keys he hasn’t held in months. The air smells stale and faintly rotten, and when he goes into the living room to open the windows he sees a pair of bananas on the table, white with mold.

“Gross,” Koutarou says out loud. The idea that no one can hear him is still foreign after so long of living on top of other people, and it’ll stay that way for a while. But his apartment is empty, and the goldfish he bought on a whim are long dead, corpses floating around in their tank. Koutarou opens the windows and sits down in front of the fish tank, reaching out to touch the glass. “I’m sorry, guys,” he says. “I kinda forgot about you, huh?”

The sight of their small yellow bodies gently bobbing is macabre, and maybe good imagery for a song.

“You’re a bad man, Bokuto Koutarou,” he tells himself with something like a grin, then stands up to give his fish friends a rushed but dignified funeral.

*

Koutarou quickly loses track of the days. He spends a week only going to the grocery store when he’s run out of beer, noodles or oranges, and he spends all of his time inside, half-heartedly switching between Netflix shows every two hours in hope of finding something that will capture his attention.

His phone rings in the middle of some Korean gorefest of a movie - he startles, spilling beer over the sheets. “Shit,” he says, grabbing for the phone. “Hello? Who is this?”

“It’s Akaashi.”

“Oh, hey, what’s up…? Do you wanna hang out or something? I’m free.”

“I can’t. I’m going on a vacation with my parents. To Hawaii.”

“What…” Koutarou pauses, rubs his forehead. “Right. I remember Kuroo mentionin’ that. Are you going to be away for long?”

“Two weeks.” There’s a pause before Akaashi speaks again. “Have you been leaving your apartment?”

“Wh-- what, yeah, ‘course. Um. What? Haven’t you seen the - there’s always pictures, the tabloids, you know... “ Koutarou winces. “...how did you know?”

“Because I know you.” Akaashi sounds odd, but it’s impossible to pin down what’s wrong over the phone, when Koutarou is just tipsy enough to consider drinking while hanging with his head off the mattress. “I need you to water my plants for me while I’m gone.”

“Your plants? You don’t have plants.”

“They’re new,” Akaashi says, clipped. “And I need you to water them. Once a day. Can you do that for me?”

“The fuck, Akaashi… ask Kuroo, isn’t he over all the time anyway?”

“I’m asking you. I’ll put a key under my doormat. I leave tomorrow, so Tuesday is the first day you have to come and water them. Do you understand?”

“...yeah, alright, I’ll do it.”

Akaashi makes a sound like relief. He must’ve really been worried about his plants, Koutarou thinks absently, drinking his beer. “Good. Thank you. I’ll buy you dinner when I get home.”

“Okay,” Koutarou says, further mollified by the thought of spending time with Akaashi. “So I just put like… water in? I can just guesstimate, I’m great at guesstimating.”

“Please don’t guesstimate,” Akaashi says. “I’ll leave you instructions, I don’t want you to drown them.”

“I wouldn’t drown them!”

“Not that long ago, you woke up every day and yelled ‘I don’t do anything by half!’ and then eating three full breakfasts. You would definitely drown them if you were to - in air quotes - guesstimate.”

“You know,” Koutarou says sourly, “I can tell when you’re being sarcastic. You don’t have to tell me I’m using air quotes.”

“It’s called accessibility politics, Bokuto,” Akaashi says with what sounds like a smile. “Look it up sometime. I have to go.”

“Accessibility politics, what even is that,” Koutarou grumbles, but he’s smiling too. “Alright. I’ll see you around, have a good time with your parents. Say hi from me.”

“I will. Bye.” Click. Koutarou puts his phone down, has a drink and smiles at nothing.

*

“You're unfairly fit, considering all the beer you drink,” Kuroo says, watching Koutarou eat.

“Yeah?” Koutarou swallows his food. “Well, your mouth is unfairly nice, considering all the shit it spouts.”

“That makes no sense,” Kuroo says, smirking. His phone beeps and he looks down, typing out a message.

“Akaashi?” Koutarou asks.

“Mm.”

“Say hi.”

“Sure,” Kuroo says after a pause, smiling down at his phone.

“When's he back again?”

“He was going away for two weeks, so next Sunday.”

“Right,” Koutarou says slowly, watching Kuroo text. “Anyway, I should get going. Got plants to water, et cetera, you know how it is.”

“Leaving already?” Kuroo says, sitting up. He looks sincerely sorry, but Koutarou can't handle sitting here and watching Kuroo text on his phone.

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing his jacket. “Sorry.”

“We should do something when Keiji gets back.”

Keiji. Koutarou’s head hurts. Dehydration, probably. Or the hangover that never goes away. “Sure,” he says, echoing Kuroo. “We will. If you're not too busy getting down and dirty.”

“Hey, what's that supposed to mean,” Kuroo says with a half-smile, but Koutarou is on his way out of the restaurant, too far away to answer. He gives Kuroo a brief wave, then walks out the door, heading to Akaashi's apartment.

On the walk over, he gets lost in thought. He didn't understand - this Kuroo and Akaashi thing, he thought it was just endorphins and hormones and a tour fuck, something that would fizzle out as soon as they got back to Tokyo and had other options again. But the way Kuroo looks at his phone, all soft-eyed and gentle, doesn't fit with a tour fuck. It looks heavier.

“Our trio’s down to two,” Koutarou sings to himself in the elevator of Akaashi's building. But it's really down to one, and they never were a trio in the first place.

He unlocks the door and steps into Akaashi's flat. It already smells musty of absence, and he opens a window to let the plants breathe as he waters them.

It doesn't take long, following Akaashi's instructions - half a cup for the ginseng, a cup for the aloe and another one for the sunflower. None of them are blooming. Koutarou doesn't even know if they will. He pats a leaf of the sunflower reassuringly. “Akaashi's a good guy,” he says. “He's gonna make sure all of you stay safe and healthy.”

The sunflower doesn't respond. Koutarou takes a picture of it, captions it _rude boy_ and sends it to Akaashi. He's only been here once before, and the utter silence is reminding him that he's in Akaashi's space, unsupervised and free to do as he pleases.

Koutarou starts by scouting out the kitchen, which is plain except for all the foreign spices Akaashi likes - garam masala, cardamom, cumin - and some colourful appliances that Koutarou suspects were gifts from Akaashi's family. The bathroom is about the same, uninteresting except for a couple of objects. Koutarou sprawls in the bath tub, feeling like a delinquent with his clothes still on, and uncaps every shower product Akaashi has to smell it.

His phone beeps, making him startle. _Glad you're keeping your promise,_ Akaashi has sent him, with a rare ☺️ emoji. Koutarou smiles and sends _of course ☺️_ back before putting his phone away again. He pours Akaashi's moisturising lotion - honey milk with almonds, or something - all over his hands, and when he closes his eyes he can almost imagine it's Akaashi's hands on him, stroking the lotion over his forearms and rubbing it into his elbows.

Koutarou opens his eyes, heart suddenly thudding with anger. “You're a fucking loser,” he tells himself, so furious that he wants to rip his own hands off or throw every last bottle Akaashi has against the wall until they break, but he settles for stumbling out of the tub and getting his jacket. He walks home tense and angry at himself, nails leaving white crescents in his palms.

*

“Have you heard of a thing called razors?” Tsukishima asks as he opens the door, letting Koutarou in.

Koutarou shrugs, toeing off his shoes. “Haven't seen the need,” he says. “Besides, some fan sites love me with stubble.”

“Of course you'd know,” Tsukishima sighs. “Yamaguchi is in the living room.”

“Thanks for letting me in on your date!”

“It's not a date,” Tsukishima says, following Koutarou into the living room and taking a seat next to Yamaguchi, who's smiling widely.

“Hello, Bokuto! Welcome home.”

“Thank you,” Koutarou says. “You know, you're the first one who's said that to me?”

Yamaguchi laughs uncertainly.

“He's kidding,” Tsukishima says, even though Koutarou isn't. His mother emailed him a ‘welcome home’, but that doesn't really count.

“Anyway,” Koutarou says, Ieaning back in his seat. “I was just thanking Tsukki for letting me crash your thing. Was goin’ a bit crazy by myself, you know?”

“Kuroo's around,” Tsukishima says.

“Akaashi's back now,” Koutarou says. He wonders if his tone betrays him, and what there even is to betray - he's glad Akaashi is back. He's upset that Akaashi and Kuroo are together. One should equal out the other, in the end.

“Right,” Tsukishima says, and thankfully he looks unhappy too, shifting closer to Yamaguchi. “That's still happening.”

“Well, I'm glad you felt like you could ask us,” Yamaguchi says. He's so different now from the kid Tsukishima once introduced Koutarou to, a mumbling, shy best friend with a long fringe to cover his acne scars. Now, he sits with his back straight beside Tsukishima, voice clear and face calm as he speaks up.

“Me too,” Koutarou says. “Not gonna lie - I was starting to feel so lonely I thought offing myself might be better, you know?”

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi look shocked, eyebrows raised high before they lower in concern. “Bokuto…” Tsukishima starts.

“Kidding, kidding,” he says quickly, “just those post-tour blues, it'll pass, I was just joking around.”

“That's not funny,” Tsukishima says, looking wary.

“Sorry. So, uh, what are we watching? There's a new Takeshi Kitano movie out, I'm sure it's on the Internet somewhere.”

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi exchange a glance. “That sounds fine by me,” Yamaguchi says finally, giving Koutarou a small smile. “I'll go find it.” He stands up, leaving through a door Koutarou knows leads to the study.

“Is this your apartment or his?” he asks Tsukishima, only slightly joking. Yamaguchi looks very comfortable in Tsukishima’s space, it's true, but Tsukishima also looks more comfortable in his presence than Koutarou has seen him in ages. His shoulders are lower now than they ever were on tour.

“It's mine,” Tsukishima says. “We're not dating.”

“You're something, alright,” Koutarou says amicably. On tour, Tsukishima would have snapped something angry and defensive in return, but here he just shrugs. “Coming home looks good on you, man.”

“You too,” Tsukishima says after a pause, eyes roving over Koutarou’s face. “Bokuto, about what you said earlier -”

“It was a bad joke,” Koutarou says firmly, interrupting him. “C’mon, it's me, there's nothing to be worried about. I just need a girlfriend or something and I'll be right as rain!” His voice gets louder than intended, fake brightness hurting his throat. Tsukishima seems to buy it, though, snorting and shaking his head.

“That's what this is about,” he says. “You not getting laid.”

“You know me,” Koutarou says and gives him a sleazy grin, as if the thought of sex is even remotely appealing these days. Even when he jerks off, numb with one hand around his dick and the other scrolling porn sites, the desire is just routine, something mechanical.

“I found it,” Yamaguchi says, coming back with a laptop to hook it up to the TV. “Would either of you like a drink? Since I'm up already.”

“Shit, please,” Koutarou says with feeling. “Anything with a percentage, if you have it.”

"I'll see what I can do." Yamaguchi gives him a brief smile again and disappears to the kitchen. Koutarou doesn't look at Tsukishima. There's no point when he knows what he'll see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get worse before they get better.

Time passes differently in Tokyo than it did on tour. Sometimes Koutarou looks up and four hours have passed, just like that. It’s weird and scary, but he doesn’t care enough to be worried except for one email he writes to Akaashi.

>Akaashi   
>keiji   
>hey   
>u’d know   
>is tokyo a temporal rift?   
>what is a temporal rift   
>im so stupid huh……. srry   
>bye

He never sends it.

Sometimes Koutarou picks up his phone and he has three missed calls, even though he swears he never heard it go off. It’s Akaashi - he feels a pang in his chest, remembering the email that’s rotting away in his drafts folder - and Koutarou calls back after a moment of debate.

“Hi, it’s Bokuto,” he says when Akaashi picks up.

“Bokuto…? What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” Nothing,” he replies with a laugh. “I just saw you’d called earlier, so I’m calling back now.”

“That was two hours ago,” Akaashi starts, and breaks off to yawn. “It’s one in the morning.”

“...oh. You’re right. Shit, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t think - sleepin’ schedule’s been a bit weird since we got back, you know.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Koutarou pauses. “So what were you calling about?” he asks instead, gracelessly changing the subject.

Luckily, Akaashi lets him get away with it. “I owe you a dinner. Are you free on Saturday?”

“Yeah,” Koutarou says immediately. He doesn’t have to think about it. “I don’t wanna go out, though.”

“No?”

“No.” Koutarou feels warm and childish all of a sudden, grinning into the receiver. “I wanna come over and have you cook for me. I need to check up on all my buddies!”

Akaashi laughs sleepily. “I’m not a good cook. Your buddies?”

“I don’t care,” Koutarou insists, “it’s what I want. And I meant the plants. Please?”

“Alright,” Akaashi says, amused. “I’ll think of something.”

“You will! I believe in you and your abilities.”

There’s a pause again, and Koutarou takes his phone away from his ear to see whether he’s still connected. When Akaashi speaks, his voice is softer and warmer than earlier. “Thank you. Get some rest, Bokuto.”

“You too,” Koutarou says sincerely, and waits until the dial tone is buzzing in his ear before he puts his phone down.

*

Creating is painful. It takes effort and energy, and sometimes it feels like it sucks the life out of you. But sometimes it feels like it only sucks the bad stuff away, or somehow makes them all okay. Sometimes it’s a good kind of pain.

Relatedly, Koutarou is writing a song. He’s no song-writer, finds words hard at the best of times, so he just hums the bare bones of a melody as he picks out a pattern on his guitar. He doesn’t play anything like Kuroo, but he played guitar for years before he fell in love with the bass. His fingers remember how to move, when to pick and slide and let go, and sometimes it feels like coming home to an old friend.

He doesn’t know what the song is for. The band could never play it - it’s too soft and plain, and even Koutarou can tell it would be a downer to listen to. When the band plays sad songs, when Tsukishima or Kuroo write them, the pain is always something beautiful, like tears sparkling like jewels and all that shit. This song isn’t like that at all. It’s sad and it’s simple, and it makes Koutarou feel both better and worse when he plays it. It’s a tangle of whole chords and finger pickings, minor power chords and pauses so that one pedal note is left to ring, ring, ring… a solitary, abandones sound that grows sadder as it fades until it’s almost gone, and then the melody starts to follow it again, steady and reassuring in its inevitability. But there’s still some dissonance between the two, the harmony and the pedal note, and they never quite find each other.

Koutarou has been making music for as long as he can remember, but for the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to show it to anyone. He doesn’t want applause or praise. This song doesn’t feel like something to be proud of.

Then again - very little does, these days. 

So when Akaashi welcomes him into his apartment, and, after food and some beer, asks him if he’s been making any music, Koutarou doesn’t feel bad when he says no. “Have you?” he asks curiously, sitting on Akaashi’s couch. Akaashi rarely writes songs, but they’re always charming and odd when he does.

Akaashi shrugs. “Not really,” he says. “Management is starting to get mad, we should arrange some meetings next week. Have you seen the emails?”

Koutarou deletes them immediately. “Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can imagine.”

Akaashi looks at him for a long moment. “I actually had another idea,” he says finally. “I think we should break up.”

Koutarou’s head snaps up. His heart, previously sluggish and beating only out of obligation, is now racing, and his eyes are wide. “You and Kuroo?”

Akaashi frowns. “No… The band.”

_ “What? _ Break up the band? Are you crazy?”

“No,” Akaashi says again as his frown deepens. “I’m not.”

“Then why?” Bokuto cries. The earlier hopeful elation has crashed and burned - instead, his blood is thudding in some panicked mania. “We can’t break up the band, that’s - that’s -”

“It’s not secret we’re on our last legs,” Akaashi says, as if anyone else thinks that, as if they don’t draw roaring crowds and still manage to sell out CDs, even though it’s a dying medium.

“That’s bullshit,” Koutarou says angrily. “Absolute fucking bullshit, Akaashi.”

“Oh, yeah?” Akaashi’s voice is sharp and so is his gaze. “What about you, then? What about your health?”

“What about it?” Koutarou replies quickly. “I’m fine. Healthy as a hippopotamus.”

“That’s not a saying,” Akaashi says, looking annoyed, and then he rubs his brow. Concern has dug itself deep into his features, and he’s pulling on his fingers. Koutarou doesn’t understand why he’s getting worked up about this, it’s not like it matters. It’s not like he matters. “No, you don’t get to do this again. You don’t get to change the subject. Do you understand that people are  _ worried _ about you, Bokuto? You barely see me or Kuroo anymore, and I’d hazard a guess you’re not seeing Tsukishima much either. And you don’t have any other friends.”

Koutarou gapes, shocked for a beat before the fury sets in. “It’s not like you’re not perfectly happy without me,” he snaps immediately, even though he can’t remember ever thinking something like that before. It’s true, though, he knows it as soon as the sentence forms in his head, before it’s even left his mouth. “You’re all happy - you’ve got Kuroo, and Kuroo’s got you, and Tsukishima’s got Yamaguchi, and Lev - has someone, probably, even  _ Hinata -” _

Akaashi leans in, brow furrowed angrily, and Koutarou is cut off mid-sentence by Akaashi’s lips on his - a startled gasp finds time to leave him before he pushes Akaashi away.  “Dude, what the…”

“You’re an idiot, Bokuto,” Akaashi says, and he looks tired and sad and determined all at once, something relentless glimmering under the worry in his eyes. Still, there’s anxiety present in the way he can’t still his fingers.  “None of us are happy without you. Not me, not Kuroo, not Tsukishima. Okay?”

“Akaashi,” Koutarou starts softly, but he doesn’t know what to say.  _ You kissed me, _ he thinks, but now Akaashi has pulled away again, and there’s no evidence that anything intimate ever transpired. Was it a fever dream? Some kind of hallucination? Is his mind really that sick? His anger is gone, punctured like a balloon, and he just feels empty and lost.

“Do you understand?” Akaashi asks, gentler now. Koutarou’s gaze flicks down to watch his mouth shape the words, a mouth he now knows what feels like, if only for an instant.

“Sure,” he says quietly. Suddenly he remembers Kuroo, and the last of his insides are scraped out by the realisation that whatever happened is never going to happen again. He is left a hollow shell of a man, sitting on Akaashi’s couch.

“I think you should get some help.”

“No.”

_ “Yes, _ Bokuto.”

“No,” he says again. “I’m fine, I just… need some time to think. Sorry, I’ll be going now. See you around, Akaashi, great to see you as always, thanks for the food and the… bye.” He gets his coat and leaves.

On the way home, Akaashi calls him. Koutarou doesn’t pick up.

*

_ Hello, Koutarou, this is your mother. Please call me when you get this. _

_ Bokuto? Hey, it's Kuroo. Akaashi said he made you mad, are you alright? Text me back, buddy. _

_ Bokuto-san, it's your manager. Call me back. _

_ Koutarou? This is your mother again. Pick up, please. _

Koutarou groans and reaches for his landline, fumbling so the rest of the machine falls to the floor while he barely manages to keep a hold of the receiver, lifting up to his face. "Hey, mom."

"Were you sleeping?"

"No, mom."

"Why haven't you replied to my emails?"

Koutarou groans again and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "I've been busy, is all. Haven't really had the time to check my emails."

His mother makes a disappointed noise. For a brief, childishly indulgent second, Koutarou imagines hanging up on her. "You're back from tour now, aren't you?"

"Uh... yeah, I'm in Tokyo. Have been for a little while, you sent me an email..."

"Oh, so you saw that one, did you?" The guilt trip is so thick is almost drips down from the phone into Koutarou's ear.

"Yeah. Sorry." Before she can jump on him for sounding insincere, he says what she wants to hear. "I'll come home... tomorrow? I'm not doing anything tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is a Thursday. Your father's working."

"Oh... yeah, duh, right. Alright, uh, Saturday, then?"

"Saturday suits us," she says. "It'll be good to see you."

"You too," he says automatically. "So, listen, I'm really busy - can I call you back?" He won't; they both know he won't, but she still sighs and agrees to let him go.

He hangs up the phone again and deletes the other voice messages before he goes back to sleep.

*

When he wakes up again, he's got a line stuck in his head -  _ I came for the kicks, I stayed for the crowd - _ and he texts it to Tsukishima absently while brushing his teeth.  _ For that dance song we talked about _ , he adds after another second of contemplating.

_ So you're not dead then?  _ Tsukishima replies.  _ Akaashi and Kuroo are worried. _

_ I'M FINE _ , Koutarou types out quickly.  _ WILL EVERYONE JUST CHILL OUT ALREADY???? _

_ No. _

"Fuck this," Koutarou says out loud and puts his phone in his pocket, "everyone keeps telling me that I'm not fine, but you know better, don't you?" He looks at himself in the mirror, his scraggly beard that he hasn't bothered trying to shave in weeks, his eyes bleary from too much sleep and with a disastrous bedhead. "Right?"

His mirror image doesn't reply, just looks as unhappy as Koutarou feels. Fucking great. He almost puts his fist through it, but instead he goes into his living room and does push-ups until the restless, angry energy leaves him.

When he checks his phone again, hours later, Tsukishima has sent him another message - a link to a YouTube video. Koutarou clicks on it, because that takes less energy than anything else, and finds to his surprise that it's a song.

He's lying on his stomach on the floor of his living room, on his grey and worn yoga mat, and he watches an all-girls indie band - from one of the islands, by the sounds of their accents - perform in a rickety basement. Lo-fi, possibly on purpose and possibly because of money restrictions, the kind of authentic garage sound Koutarou envied when he was younger, because he could never quite replicate it. Especially since they took off, the band's sound has become more and more polished, and it's a world completely removed from this. The camera takes its time focusing on the different members of this girl group as they play, and he notes with faint amusement that the bassist still holds her instrument awkwardly, keeping a simple but well-made beat going as the singer and guitarist take centre stage.

He spends the entirety of the video analysing the members and their circumstances, their appearances and their skills. But there's some hook - some line he can't put his finger on, but he wants to hear it again, so he moves to lie on his back and puts his phone on his chest. The song starts to play again and Koutarou closes his eyes to listen.

The song is cautious, first of all, with softer edges - Koutarou's not surprised Tsukishima was drawn to it, as it's closest to his taste out of all of them. And then the vocalist starts to sing, and it takes him by surprise how good she is. Raw in a way female artists rarely are, though Koutarou can't remember the last time he actually listened to music, and... something in the way she sings reminds him of Tsukishima, reminds him of his own band, even though it feels unreachable right now.  _ I'm going to keep running,  _ she sings, this unnamed, beautiful, aggressive vocalist that Koutarou's half in love with already, and the drums back her up with a demanding rhythm, a sudden shift that makes his pulse jump and a grin spread unbidden on his face. She sings it again and again, and every time it rings truer and truer.  _ I'm going to keep going. _

_ Keep going, keep going, keep going,  _ the rest of the band sings with her before she launches into another verse. Koutarou can hear her passion, and not just hers but everyone's - the bassist, the drummer, the guitarist. This is what they love, even the bass player unfamiliar with her instrument. This is what they want to do and do and  _ keep doing,  _ making music and express themselves and they will do it even if they have to do it out of a basement for the rest of their lives.

The song calms down again, reverting to its soothing intro, but it's not revertion at all - it's a growth, elements of the crescendo lasting throughout the rest of the song. It's not gone back to the old ways, it's become something new, something that can be both soft and strong without having to always be both.

Koutarou blinks and blinks again, tears running over his temples as he stares up at the ceiling. Fucking music, he thinks, and curls into a ball to cry his few, angry tears.

_ Good song, _ he sends back to Tsukishima when he's calmed down, when his face is dry and his mind is quiet. He feels lighter, like maybe he can go for a walk. Maybe he could pick up something for dinner on the way.  _ Can we give them a record deal somehow? _

*

When he gets home, carrying full grocery bags for the first time in weeks, he almost sends the same link to Kuroo. It's something they used to do to bounce ideas off each other - send each other good songs, talk about what they did right, what they did wrong. They wanted to make their band out of the best parts of their favourite artists, and it took Akaashi and Tsukishima joining to make them realise that they had to create something new, or they wouldn't go anywhere.

He wants to show the song to Kuroo, wants to show it to Akaashi too - he doesn't even care if Tsukishima's sent it to them already, he needs them to listen to these girls who have most of it figured out and know how to work through the rest. These  _ girls, _ who Koutarou wants to get on a stage somehow. It’s been so long since he’s been passionate about anything, but he needs to make this happen, and he puts on more of their music as he cooks dinner, dancing stupidly around in his kitchen when a particularly upbeat song comes on.

He doesn’t send it to either of them, though. Akaashi wouldn’t like it, he knows, and it would hurt too much if he got any form of rejection back, any kind of ‘cool song I guess’. This music has scraped him raw, left him vulnerable to any criticism. And Kuroo… Koutarou can’t face Kuroo. Just thinking about him makes him feel guilty.

The music cuts off just then, the playlist finished, and Koutarou slumps as he scrapes his stir fry onto a plate and sits down to eat, ready to wash it down with some newly bought wine. He doesn’t feel happy anymore, but he doesn’t feel completely empty either. His stomach growls and he pats it reassuringly. “Food soon,” he tells it. He does that a lot, he’s just starting to notice - talks to himself to fill the silence.

He didn’t use to. Maybe he’s just a lot more lonely now.

“Lonely,” Koutarou says out loud, and snorts. This is a new level of pathetic. But maybe that’s the problem, maybe that bullshit he spouted at Tsukishima’s was actually right, maybe he just needs a girlfriend to get his act together - but he knows that isn’t true as soon as he thinks it. This isn’t about being single. It runs deeper than that.

In the end, after dinner and when he’s retreated back to bed with the rest of his bottle, wrapped in blankets and scrolling through meaningless feeds on his phone, that’s how he decides to break the silence with his oldest friend - a text out of nowhere, typed with shaky fingers.

_ I kissed akaashi, _ he writes.  _ Or he kissed me. Im really sorry. Do you think Im lonely? Do I seem lonely to u? _

A minute passes. Koutarou’s teeth almost bite through his lower lip, worrying it firmly as he waits for a response.  _ Pls reply when u see this, _ he ends up sending, a cacophony of messages that would be embarrassing if he hadn’t abandoned shame long ago, if he wasn’t too scared of Kuroo’s answer to be anything close to embarrassed.  _ Im rly sorry pleas dont hate me and dont break up wit him because of it its not his fault its never gonna happen again I promise. Pls dont hate me kuroo i couldnt bear it _

_ I dont hate you,  _ Kuroo replies finally, after ages and ages of agony.  _ Im not going to break up with him either. But I need to talk to him. Are you ok? _

_ No, _ Koutarou texts before he can change his mind.  _ TELL ME HOW IT GOES!!!!! PLS DONT BREAK UP!!!!!! _

Kuroo doesn't reply, not even after Koutarou has stared at his phone and willed a message to appear for several minutes. He collapses back onto his bed with a loud sigh. God  _ fucking  _ damn it.

How useless is he? He can't even let Akaashi and Kuroo be happy, can't do this one selfless thing for them and just stay out of their business. Maybe Akaashi never would've told Kuroo; maybe he's already forgotten, because it was that insignificant to him. He's not like Koutarou, useless and hopeless and a complete fucking waste of space.

So much for feeling better, Koutarou thinks to himself and curls up in his blankets.

*

"Are you eating? You look thin." His mother looks over him with a critical eye, and he nods dutifully.

"I am, don't worry. I've just been exercising a lot more since I got back."

His mother doesn't look convinced.

"Running," he tries. "Cardio."

"Right," his mother says. "Good."

"How's the bass going?" his dad asks.

"Fine," he replies. "It's going well."

Rinse, wash, repeat. He still hasn't heard from Kuroo or Akaashi, even though it's been a whole day, even though he's been tempted to go track them down and shout at them to tell him what's going on, anything, just tell him what's happening.

Koutarou stays at his parents' until he can politely excuse himself. On the way home, he can barely remember what they talked about at all. He doesn't feel human anymore, just a mass of blood and foam that maneuvers its way through the crowds until it's home again in its empty apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might end up being four chapters - this one was a bit shorter, but it was the only natural place to cut it off. next chapter should hopefully be out within a week. peace out, homes.


	3. Chapter 3

The weekend passes without word from either Akaashi or Kuroo. Monday morning, Koutarou is woken up by management calling him, stressing how important it is that he attends the meeting at 10 am - an ungodly time, Koutarou thinks sleepily as he gets dressed in yesterday's clothes. His head is pounding, and he takes some painkillers before heading out.

He doesn't register much between leaving his apartment and walking into the building. Things pass by; he’s seen them before. "There's food stains on your t-shirt," Tsukishima informs him as soon as he steps into the meeting room.

Koutarou looks down and shrugs. "Eh," he says and takes a seat next to Tsukishima. Kuroo and Akaashi are already there, but he doesn't look at them.

"As you all know," their manager starts, "we're filming the commercial for  _ Spike Your Life _ next week."

The band makes a vague sound of agreement. Koutarou starts chipping at the wood paneling of the table, barely paying attention. There's something about  _ Spike Your Life, _ the brand cologne they're releasing soon, some commercials and photo shoots and some other stuff that Koutarou doesn't care about. He knows someone will make sure he shows up and looks presentable, so he feels free to sit back and let the words go in one ear and out the other, zoning out into a semi-pleasant state of numbness.

“... suggested by Bokuto,” Tsukishima says, nudging him out of his comfortable haze. Koutarou blinks.

“Huh?”

“The new single.”

Akaashi and Kuroo both look surprised. “I didn’t know you guys were working on something,” Kuroo says. “That’s awesome.”

Management looks pleased too. Koutarou shrugs again. “It’s Tsukki’s,” he says.

“It’s not -” Tsukishima starts, then lets out an annoyed huff. “Either way, it’s still very rough. I would estimate that it will take at least another month or so.”

“Great!” their manager chirps. “Then I can start booking studios for the music video. That’s excellent news, Tsukishima-san, Bokuto-san. Thank you.”

“Mm,” Koutarou says vaguely, looking down.

The meeting's suddenly over, after Koutarou has traced the kanji of his name into the wood several times with his nail - maybe it'll leave a mark, maybe someone else will have a meeting here in two months and notice it and think of him. The idea almost makes him laugh, that some stranger could spare him a second thought just from reading some syllables on a surface.

He intends to slink away as soon as the meeting is over, go home and maybe nap or go for a run, but Akaashi stops him in the doorway, looking at him. "Bokuto," he says. "Can I talk to you?"

"No," Koutarou says plainly. "I have to go, dude, we can catch up some other time..." He starts to move, but Akaashi holds him back by his wrist - just a tug and then he lets go, stepping back as if belatedly to give Koutarou space, realising that he's overstepped his bounds. Koutarou’s skin feels warm where Akaashi touched him.

"I think we should talk," Akaashi says firmly. "I have to apologise."

“No,” Koutarou says again, more weakly this time. He looks up and down the corridor. “Look, Akaashi, this isn’t the place, and anyway I should get home -”

“Come on,” Akaashi says, holding the door open to a smaller storage room. “Please.”

Koutarou exhales uncertainly, and after a moment follows Akaashi into the other room.

Akaashi closes the door. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For what happened.”

“‘S fine,” Koutarou mumbles, staring at the floor. Linoleum. It’s nice, linoleum. Means it’s hard to see dirt, so you don’t have to clean it that often. Not that these floors are ever dirty.

“It’s not. Bokuto…” Akaashi trails off. Koutarou doesn’t lift his gaze. “I care about you. Hearing you talk about yourself like that is frightening.”

“Sorry.”

Akaashi sighs. “That’s not what I mean. In any case - I let my emotions get the better of me. I’ve already apologised to Tetsurou, but I’m sorry for violating your personal space.”

“It’s fine,” Koutarou says tonelessly. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you,” Akaashi says, and he sounds relieved, as if he doesn’t know Koutarou would forgive him for murder under the right circumstances. “Do you want to come over for lunch?”

Koutarou startles and finally look up at him. “Uh, I don’t think - I mean, I don’t know,” he starts. “Wouldn’t that be kinda weird?”

Akaashi shakes his head. “It was Tetsurou’s idea, if that helps,” he says. “He’ll be there too.”

Koutarou relaxes. “So he doesn’t hate me,” he says, and Akaashi snorts, almost smiling.

“Not at all.” He hesitates as if to say more, and Koutarou watches him uncertainly, but he seems to decide against it. “I’m sure he’s waiting. Do you wanna go?”

“Yeah, okay,” Koutarou says, biting his cheek as he follows Akaashi out of the room, walking in silence.

“Hey,” Kuroo says when Akaashi and Koutarou exit the building, straightening from where he’s been leaning against a column and coming up to them. “You joining us, Bokuto?”

“Yup,” Koutarou says after a beat, long enough to be awkward but too short for either of the others to remark on it. “Didn’t have anything better to do, so.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Kuroo says. He sounds sympathetic, and even though Koutarou knows Kuroo is actually a hell of a nice guy, his eyes still narrow at the sound of Kuroo trying to be kind. They start walking, and only after a minute or so of silence does Koutarou remember to ask where they’re going.

“To mine,” Akaashi says. “Since it’s closest.”

“Cool,” Koutarou says. “Oh, that means I can say hello to the plants!”

“Yeah,” Akaashi says with a small smile. “I’m sure they’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed them.” Koutarou twists to include Kuroo in the converation. “I’ve given them all names, you know. The sunflower, he’s the rude one, and the ginseng is named Old Man since it kinda reminds me of old man skin, and then there’s Miss Green…” Koutarou rattles off the names he’s given to plants that aren’t his, suddenly intensely uncomfortable with the concept of silence. He talks about nothing on the way to the subway, mouth moving on autopilot - still, he manages to make Kuroo laugh a few times, and he sees Akaashi smile, so it can’t be completely hopeless.

On the subway to Akaashi’s apartment, all of them fall silent out of habit, keeping their heads down and trying to look as unrecognisable as possible. Koutarou used to thrive off getting recognised in public - he was the only one who never tired of it, even when it turned everyone else in the band off. Now, though, it just makes him feel like a fraud, and when he’s stopped at the grocery store to sign and smile for selfies it’s a prickling kind of pain, like waiting for his mother to tell him what he’d done wrong. He’s a disappointment, don’t they know that? His music is garbage these days, he doesn’t play anything other than that one song, the song that makes him feel like he’s unraveling, and that’s nothing to be proud of. People are surrounding him on every side, and it feels like every inhale contains only just enough oxygen to get by, air reused and reused and inhaled and exhaled until there’s nothing left except empty molecules that don’t benefit anybody.

The subway car shakes as it comes to a stop, and Akaashi’s fingers wrap around his wrist to pull him with them out of the crowd and onto the platform. Koutarou startles, jumping like a statue come to life, and pulls his wrist away before he steps out into the underground subway stop, where the air is just as stale but a little lighter.

“You okay?” Kuroo asks him when they’re outside, giving him a worried glance.

“What, me?” Koutarou asks. It’s easier to breathe out here. “I’m fine. Just got distracted.”

“By what?”

“Uh… I was thinking about the new single.”

“The one you and Tsukki are writing?”

“We’re not,” he says irritably. “I mean, I’m not. He’s writing it.”

“But you’re working on it together, aren’t you?”

_ “No,” _ Koutarou says. “It’s Tsukki’s thing.”

A silence falls - Kuroo and Akaashi look at each other for a moment while Koutarou does his best to avoid their gazes. Finally, Akaashi unlocks the door to his apartment and lets them in. “I’m glad you’re both here, actually,” he says, wandering over to his turntable. “I need to borrow your ears.”

“What do you need?” Kuroo asks.

“I’ve been trying to adjust the anti-skating,” Akaashi says, starting to turn his stereo on. There’s a lot of steps to it. Koutarou watches him vacantly. “I need you two to listen for distortion while I adjust it.”

“You don’t have a test record?” says Koutarou. Maybe this was the only reason Akaashi asked him over, to make him give his opinion on his stereo. Maybe Akaashi doesn’t want to spend time with him at all.

“I do, but it’s inaccurate.” Akaashi puts a record on and lowers the pickup, adjusting the volume. “It’s better with real music, anyway.”

“Everything is,” Kuroo chips in, making Akaashi smile at him over his shoulder.

Koutarou looks at them from his chair, simmering with bitterness. He hates records. He’ll admit that it sounds great, at least on a specialised, expensive stereo like Akaashi’s - unless the recording is bad - but it’s too much hassle. Get up, switch sides, sit down. Get up, put on another album, sit down. Koutarou plays music like he does most things - immediately and shuffled, leaving his fate in the hands of indifferent algorithms.

Of course, that’s another thing they disagree on, him and Akaashi. According to Akaashi, music isn’t made to be shuffled. Playing songs out of order, or in random playlists, removes some painstakingly delicate intent from the song, robbing the creator of part of their work.

“Death of the artist,” Koutarou says out loud.

“What’s that?” Akaashi asks. He’s put a record on while Koutarou was lost in thought.

“I said it sounds fine,” Koutarou says louder.

“Maybe a little up,” Kuroo suggests. “There’s something flat about the sound picture.”

“Skating technically isn’t supposed to have anything to do with that,” Akaashi says as he adjusts the arm of the player.

Kuroo hums approvingly. “Definitely better. Bokuto?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds good to me too.”

“Great, thank you.” Akaashi turns the music down enough that they can easily talk over it, and goes to sit down next to Kuroo.

Kuroo wraps his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders. Their thighs are touching.

“You look like a married couple or something,” Koutarou says. “So domestic.”

Kuroo laughs, surprised, and takes his arm away, but his leg is still flush against Akaashi’s.  “Sorry, dude.”

“It’s fine,” Koutarou says with a weak smile.

“Are you hungry? I’ll start lunch,” Akaashi says.

“Oh, please,” Kuroo says. “Do you want some help?”

Akaashi shakes his head. “You guys stay here. It doesn’t take long.” He takes the bag of groceries they picked up on the way back, and goes into the kitchen.

“I thought he didn’t like to cook,” Koutarou says, looking after him.

“Ah, we’ve been cooking together a lot since we got back, so…”

“Right,” Koutarou says, after a pause. “‘Cause you like to cook.”

“I do,” Kuroo confirms, looking confused.

“I remember. From ages ago, I mean. You always liked to cook.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “Being a cook sounded too stressful, though, so I decided to chill out and become a rock star instead. Of course, I still give private lessons…” Kuroo winks at Koutarou, obviously joking, and Koutarou’s snort of laughter rasps in his throat, leaving it raw.

“I’ll bet you do,” he replies. “They do say that a man’s way - no, a stomach… No, what the hell -”

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Kuroo says, and Koutarou nods, relieved.

“Yeah, that, exactly. Man, my brain’s a fuckin’ mess lately, I keep forgetting things left and right.”

“It happens,” Kuroo says, but his brows are creasing in concern. Some part of Koutarou wants to cry. He’s been so starved for human contact, for any conversation that isn’t the studio calling to nag at him, but he can’t even behave like normal for two fucking minutes, and no wonder no one wants him around, since he’s just turned into a forgetful, awkward waste of space. “Are you okay?”

Koutarou shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. One part of him is sad, but it’s always sad, the kind of indulgent self-pity that makes him resent himself, and the rest is… Numb. And that feels fine. “Just hungry. Didn’t have time to eat breakfast.”

“So no pizza?” Kuroo asks, nodding at the stain on the front of his shirt. Koutarou looks down.

“Uh… I was running late, so I just grabbed the first thing I could find.”.

“Good thing Tarou-san wasn’t at the meeting, then,” Kuroo says, and grins at Koutarou’s bark of laughter.

“That guy would have my ass no matter what I did. I could show up in a tux and he’d be like, hm, Bokuto-san, there’s a piece of lint on your shoulder, I hope you don’t consider this professional behaviour.”

Kuroo laughs. “He made us look good, though,” he says. “Still does - I’m sure he’ll be there for the shoot next week.”

“Yeah,” Koutarou says. He barely remembers that there’s a photo shoot scheduled, nevermind what it’s for. 

“You read that article on Tsukki, right?”

“No?”

“Oh, I thought I sent it to you… It was about Tsukishima Kei, fashion idol.”

Koutarou laughs at Kuroo’s grandiose gesture, and for a moment it feels jut like old times. He and Kuroo on a couch, talking about anything and everything just to make the other laugh, Koutarou making silly jokes so he can bask in Kuroo’s attention just one minute more. They mock Tsukishima’s fashion sense - gently, in the way only old friends can - and then it’s free reign to start ribbing each other.

But then Akaashi comes in… Wait, no, that’s not right. Akaashi comes in and things are still okay, Koutarou is feeling lighter than he has in weeks - but then they go sit at the table, and Koutarou knocks into a glass with his elbow. It shatters the moment it hits the floor, making Koutarou jump, and then they’re all fighting to be the one to clean it up. “I’ve got it, babe,” Kuroo says, and he touches Akaashi’s arm, and finds the dust pan and brush without needing directions. The weight slams back down onto Koutarou’s shoulders, flinching as his mood plummts once again, and he’s helpless to watch it happen.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying to both of them as he watches Kuroo clean up his mess, “I’m really sorry.” He’s sorry for breaking the glass, he’s sorry for always making a mess, he’s sorry for wanting either of them, both of them - he’s sorry for being so bad that he makes Akaashi want to break up the band.

“It’s fine,” Akaashi says, watching carefully to make sure Kuroo doesn’t cut himself on the shards. “It’s just a glass. But you can replace it if it’ll make you feel better.”

Koutarou swallows. “I will,” he promises. “I’ll find something better.”

Akaashi smiles at him. It’s not malicious, or resentful, or even unkind at all; it’s much more than Koutarou deserves. “At least there’s nothing in your food,” Akaashi says.

“I prefer all my meals with a side of broken glass, actually,” Koutarou jokes half-heartedly, barely stifling a grimace when it falls flat.

Kuroo sits back in his chair after throwing the glass out, starting to eat Akaashi’s creation. “This is actually pretty good, Keiji!”

“Thank you,” Akaashi says, looking flattered. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Kuroo’s lessons must have paid off, Koutarou thinks, and tries not to imagine hands wandering under aprons. He starts to eat. It’s a shame there’s no glass, really, he thinks while chewing, aware as he thinks it that he’s so melodramatic it hurts, that he sounds like a teenage parody of himself. But he can’t help it - this awful awkwardness, the constant reminder that Akaashi and Kuroo are a couple, that he’s alone and lonely and miserable grates on his worn, frazzled feelings, and that’s why… But those are all excuses. Just pull yourself together, he tells himself. Just stop.

Just  _ stop. _

“Bokuto?”

“Hm?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh… it’s good. You need to stop selling yourself short, everything you do is great.”

“Oh,” Akaashi says, blinking. His mouth looks soft; it’s open and slack in a rare, honest display of surprise. “Thank you.”

“Such a charmer, Bokuto,” Kuroo says with a grin.

Koutarou shrugs, shoulders rising. He shouldn’t have said anyhing. “It’s just the truth,” he mumbles.

“Well, I appreciate it,” Akaashi says, and he sounds awkward now too. Koutarou is infecting them all with his terrible bitterness. He is rotten, spreading it to Akaashi and Kuroo by touch, by merely being around them at all.

They eat, mostly in silence, and when they retreat back into the living room, tiny worms are crawling under Koutarou’s skin. He’s out of place. He shouldn’t be here. The intimacy in Akaashi and Kuroo’s casual touches prick like needles, almost painless unless Koutarou lingers on it, and he always lingers.

He doesn’t talk much. Every word feels awkward and out of place in his mouth, so mostly he just watches Akaashi and Kuroo as they talk, humming occasionally in agreement.

It’s painful, but it’s numbing, and there is an odd kind of relief in that.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he says after a long moment of silence and stands up. Akaashi nods.

“It’s just down the hall,” he says.

“I know,” Koutarou says with a weak smile, and excuses himself again before heading into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Blessed silence.

When he was little he couldn’t deal with silence - had to talk, or sing, or play music. Now his life is mostly silence.

It makes sense. He’s growing up.

He does his business half-heartedly - he didn’t really need to pee, but it was as good an excuse as any to get away - and, when he doesn’t feel ready to join Kuroo and Akaashi in the living room again, lies down in the bath tub. 

“Why do you always end up here?” Koutarou asks himself, eyes closing. The porcelain is cool and hard against his neck. He’s just going to take a breather, he tells himself. Just going to get his shit together before he goes back out.

But every limb feels heavy. He just wants to stay here until it’s over.

The smell of Akaashi’s products are in the air. He probably took a shower this morning, Koutarou thinks. Akaashi doesn’t know that Koutarou has smelled each of his gel, soap and conditioner - he doesn’t know that Koutarou is a pervert and a disgrace, a disgusting excuse for a human being who takes advantage of his friends by imagining them in - in scenarios that they’d never, that they’d never…

Koutarou smacks his forehead hard, and the pain makes tears spring to his eyes. He told himself to  _ stop,  _ so he is going to stop, he’s going to stop all of this, he just -

“Bokuto?” Kuroos voice comes from the other side of the door, along with a quiet knock of knuckles. “You alright in there?”

“I’m fine,” Koutarou replies raspily, voice hoarse and tight. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Bokuto…”

“Go  _ away, _ Kuroo.”

"Are you crying?"

"No! Fuck off, just get - get out of here..."

"I'm coming in," Kuroo says firmly, and Koutarou watches the handle turning with blurry vision. He didn't lock the door behind him. Amateur mistake.

Kuroo looks surprised to see him curled in on himself in the bath, frowning deeply and crouching down on the tiles next to the tub. "Dude, are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I'm  _ fine," _ Koutarou gets out, voice dangerously close to breaking. "Just - go back to Akaashi, fuck, I'll be - I just need to get my shit together, okay, leave me alone -"

Kuroo reaches out and puts his hand on Koutarou's shoulder, and his gaze is too painful to meet. Koutarou has to hide his face in his hands, taking deep, gasping breaths. "I'm not going to leave you alone," Kuroo says finally. "Can I hug you?"

Koutarou swallows hard and nods. This is so fucking pathetic, breaking down in front of Kuroo like this, when nothing is even  _ wrong, _ everything is fine, he's just tired. Kuroo doesn't react to Koutarou's thoughts, can't seem to hear them even though Koutarou hates himself so loudly that it feels like a presence in itself, something thick and gagging in the air - Kuroo only pulls him closer, both of them awkwardly curling over the side of the tub as they hug. Koutarou's fingers ache with how hard he grasps at Kuroo's t-shirt.

"It's okay," Kuroo murmurs, and he sounds like he's soothing a child, or a startled animal, not a grown man crying in someone else's bath tub. Koutarou lets out a wet laugh, pressing his face into Kuroo's shirt.

"I'm so pathetic, Kuroo, I'm so fucking sorry..."

"Don't be sorry," Kuroo says gently. He's so  _ good _ at this, better than Koutarou deserves, Koutarou deserves - nothing, but certainly not a friend like Kuroo. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Koutarou says, voice cracking. "I'm just... tired."

Kuroo hums. It's silent for a long moment, Koutarou's breath finally calming again. Kuroo's hand is stroking his shoulder, steady and rhythmical. "Something is wrong, though."

"No..."

"Bokuto, c'mon."

Koutarou takes a deep breath. "I don't know what it is," he says, voice small. "It's just... everything."

“That doesn't sound very good.”

“No.” Koutarou laughs again, choked and hoarse. “No, it kinda sucks. Guess I'm just bad at being an adult.”

“If you're bad at it, we're all bad at it.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Koutarou says. He sits back and scrubs at his face, ashamed. Kuroo lets go of him after a moment, but he stays close.

“What's bothering you? I know you said everything, but you have to start somewhere.”

“I don't  _ know..!  _ The - the band, everything is going to hell, Akaashi wants to break it up, I don't like doing it anymore, and then there's you and Akaashi and I'm fucking -” He shuts up, closing his eyes tightly, biting his lip to keep anything else incriminating stuck in his throat, where it can only hurt him and no one else.

“You don't like doing the band anymore?” Kuroo asks. He sounds - surprised, and hurt, so hurt that Koutarou opens his eyes to look at him again. Kuroo is frowning deeply, gaze flitting over Koutarou’s face and searching for something unknown. “Why not?”

“I - I do,” Koutarou amends. He has to look away. “It's just - I hate the fighting, and it's so tiring, it's fun to play our songs and be on stage, but… I'm not very good at it anymore. Akaashi’s noticed, that's why he wants to break up the band.”

“Keiji doesn't want to break up the band.”

“He does..! He told me. He wants to break up the band because I'm - a fucking mess.”

“Pretty sure that's not what he said,” Kuroo says firmly. “You wanna go ask him?”

“No! No, no, I don't -” Koutarou doesn't want anyone to have to see him like this. Kuroo having to is pathetic enough, but the thought of trying to push Kuroo away makes it hard to breathe. “Don't, don't do that.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Koutarou moves forward again, closing his eyes and resting his head against Kuroo’s shoulder. The bath tub he's lying in feels like a porcelain coffin, already as cold as death’s embrace. “I'm just so melodramatic,” he mumbles into Kuroo's shirt.

“I know,” Kuroo says, not unkindly. “It's okay.”

“Mm.”

“You should talk to someone, though. About your high highs and your… low lows.”

“High highs.” Koutarou snorts. “I  _ wish  _ I was high right now. I've still only - that time in Hokkaido, that's the only time I've done it, you know?”

Kuroo is sitting very still on the bathroom floor. “Really?”

“Yeah… I'm not really that adventurous, I guess. And - lungs are important, and shit… I'm boring. God, I fucking  _ suck,  _ Kuroo, I hate myself so much -”

“No, no,” Kuroo says, and shushes him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders again. It's like some dam is breaking loose inside him, and Koutarou’s jaw is aching with how hard he's trying to stay quiet, but Kuroo touches his neck and it all just falls out of him like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces, one nonsensical bit after another - 

“I'm so fucking sorry for - for that thing with Akaashi, I'd never - but that's a lie, I  _ would,  _ but I can't - I could never - and fuck, that night in Hokkaido, Kuroo, I - and I'm so fucking, I’m worthless at this point, I can't do anything right and I can barely do anything either, what if this is just how life is, maybe it's the same for - for you, and Akaashi, but you don't whine about it all the time like I do -”

“Calm down,” Kuroo says, “calm down -”

“And I’m just a fucking  _ loser, _ I’m poisonous, I can’t deal with - there’s not even anything  _ wrong, _ I have money and friends and I’m happy, I should be happy, I just - I don’t - I can’t -”

_ “Bokuto,” _ Kuroo says, and he sounds desperate enough that Koutarou’s words falter halfway out of his mouth, “it’s okay, calm down, please, it’s  _ okay.” _

“Fucking  _ shit,” _ Koutarou says brokenly. “I hate this, Kuroo.”

“I know you do,” Kuroo says. He’s silent for a second - Koutarou’s lips flick up to catch his tongue curling out over his lip, wetting it in a moment of hesitation. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”

“Talk to someone?”

“You know… like a professional.”

Koutarou snorts, unimpressed and weirdly hurt. “No thanks,” he says. “I’m fine, I  _ can _ do things, I don’t need to… That’s - this’ll pass.”

“I’m sure it will,” Kuroo says. “But doesn’t talking about it now make you feel better?”

_ No, _ Koutarou wants to say immediately, because he’s just spent the last ten minutes crying and his face is blotched and gross, and there’s probably snot on Kuroo’s shirt, but - there is something. In his chest, maybe, or his throat. It’s not that hard to swallow anymore. “Maybe a little,” he says finally.

Kuroo grins. “See,” he says, and relaxes back on his arms. “So isn’t it good to talk to someone, just until it passses?”

“I guess,” Koutarou replies reluctantly. He studies Kuroo, frowning. There’s still something he needs to say, something he needs to explain, because the thought of any of this weighing Kuroo down is more horrible than anything else he’s thought tonight, and he just wants Kuroo to brush all of it off. He doesn’t want anyone to waste their time worrying about him. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Kuroo says, looking angry before he catches himself. “It’s not your fault, so don’t apologise, okay?”

“I think about that night,” Koutarou says quickly, brain-to-mouth without any filter, heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs, “I think about it a lot.”

Kuroo stares at him. Koutarou flushes and looks away, embarrassment starting to give way to humiliation before Kuroo finally replies. “Me too,” Kuroo says finally. His voice is faint. “I really…”

He doesn’t finish, and Koutarou doesn’t dare ask him to.

They sit in silence until there’s a knock on the door, and Akaashi’s voice. “Tetsurou? Bokuto?”

Koutarou stands up in a hurry, knocking over several products on the bath tub rim as he moves over to the sink. The water is ice cold when he splashes it onto his face.

“I’ll, uh, go out and talk to him,” Kuroo says. Koutarou stays bent over the sink. “Bokuto?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Koutarou mumbles into his hands. He hears the door close after Kuroo leaves, hears the soft murmur of voices in the corridor. He straightens up.

The man staring back at him in the mirror doesn’t look much lighter at all, even though he still feels that airy freedom of feeling lingering. Koutarou pats his face dry. “Are you depressed?” he asks quietly, staring at himself. “Is that what this is?”

Even while watching his own lips form the words, his reflection still looks like a stranger - bearded and miserable, with red eyes and greased hair. What a fall from grace. Kuroo’s right, there is something wrong. Something he might not be able to tackle on his own.

When Koutarou exits the bathroom, he feels humbled. It doesn’t take long before he excuses himself, and both Kuroo and Akaashi let him go. 

The walk home is quiet and full of thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no eta on the last chapter, but hopefully it'll be out sometime next week. if you haven't, check out the awesome cover knockedforsix made for this (at the beginning of the first chapter).
> 
> lastly; if you feel like bokuto does, please see someone. talk to someone. a friend, family member, or a professional. leave me a comment and i'll try to help. life isn't meant to be this way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for sticking with me this far. this chapter is almost as long as the preceding three combined, but i didn't wanna split it up again. sorry. thanks once again to nikki for amazing feedback and holding my hand, and indy for some last-minute betaing.

Kuroo calls him the next day. “Were you asleep?” he asks, even though it’s one in the afternoon.

“No,” Koutarou says. “Just chilling.”

“Okay. Well, I’m just calling because… well, yesterday was pretty heavy. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Koutarou bites his lip and lies back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I’m fine,” he says.

“Alright. Do you want help booking an appointment and all that stuff? The sooner the better, probably.”

Koutarou groans. “Kuroo, dude…”

“No,” Kuroo says firmly. “You need this. If I send you some links, will you email them? Please.”

“Fine,” Koutarou says after a moment. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you. Hey, Akaashi and I were gonna go see the new Marvel film next week. Do you wanna come?”

“Do I have a choice?” Koutarou asks, but his voice is light.

Kuroo laughs. “Not really, man. I think it’s good for you to get out of the house. What do you say?”

“Okay,” Koutarou says. “Yeah, okay, that sounds nice.”

“Good,” Kuroo says. He sounds relieved. Once again, Koutarou is caught off-guard. “How are you?”

“I’m… okay,” Koutarou says after a pause. “Not up to much, but hey, not like that’s new - what about you?”

“Keiji and I just had lunch,” Kuroo says.

“Oh. You stayed over?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad,” Koutarou says. He isn’t and he is, at the same time. He’s glad - he’s glad that they have each other, that they’re a thing, that they make each other happy. “Really, I am.” And yet, it always feels harder to swallow when he thinks about it.

“It’s okay,” Kuroo says. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Koutarou almost drops his phone, surprised. What does that mean? Does Kuroo know? Sick guilt settles in Koutarou’s bones. He knows he was rambling yesterday, but he thought he was too vague or incoherent - he didn’t think he exposed himself like that, but here Kuroo is, able to cut him to the quick with a simple phrase. “...No? Don’t we?”

“No,” Kuroo says. “Not yet.”

Koutarou exhales uncertainly. “Alright,” he says. He doesn’t know what that means, but he doesn’t dare to ask. Maybe Kuroo will forget whatever it is he thinks Koutarou knows if they never talk about it again.

Maybe Koutarou too will forget if he never talks about it again.

*

It takes four hours of staring at his phone for him to make the call to book an appointment.

He doesn’t know when he got this goddamn lazy.

*

Koutarou is lying on the couch when the doorbell rings; it startles him, making him jump so violently it’s painful. “What the  _ shit,” _ he says, and then he looks at the time, and then he swears again.

He fumbles over to the receiver, almost falling over when he stands up too fast and his vision goes spotty, and when he speaks into the buzzer he sounds faint. “I’ll buzz you up,” he says, “just gimme a second.”

“Okay,” Kuroo says cheerfully from the other end, and Koutarou runs off to the bathroom to somehow fix his appearance before they reach his floor.

He knows they’re going to the movies today. He’s been dreading it, a sick pit of feeling curdling in his stomach and making him do anything but think about it, do anything but look at the time and wait. There’s no reason why he doesn’t want to go, but it feels daunting and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t even have the energy to give himself a half-hearted pep talk as he tries to shave his beard enough to look presentable.

There’s a knock on the door just before he finishes, and he yells something unintelligible while washing the rest off his face and spraying some much needed deodorant everywhere he can think of.

“Sorry!” Koutarou almost slams the door into his face when he opens it, sweating and out of breath. “Sorry, sorry, I lost track of time - I was gonna, like, do shit, I promise -”

“It’s fine,” Akaashi interrupts him with a smile. Koutarou stares.

“Uh, come in,” he says after picking his jaw back up from the floor, and steps aside so Kuroo and Akaashi can enter. “Hey, you guys look good today!”

“Thank you,” Akaashi says nonchalantly, but Kuroo grins and flashes him a thumbs up. Koutarou picks at the end of his t-shirt - it’s faded and old, and now it’s even got speckles of water from his rushed shaving. He looks like an idiot, and the dread in his stomach becomes heavier, pulling him further down. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. All he wants to do is to sit on his couch and wait for the day to be over.

“Bokuto?”

“Hm?”

“Is something the matter?” Akaashi asks, forehead creasing. “You didn’t seem to hear me.”

“Ah… Maybe I need to get my ears checked,” Koutarou replies weakly, unable to admit how hard it is to pay attention to anything at all these days. “Maybe I’ve got tinnitus.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Statistically, out of the four of us it should be me,” he says. “However, as I was saying, you look better now that your whole face is visible.”

“Oh.” Koutarou blinks and instinctively reaches up to rub at his jaw, where the skin is still prickly and irritated. “Thank you.”

“You look almost human again,” Kuroo says lightly, arm settling around Koutarou’s shoulders. Koutarou bares his teeth at him and he laughs. “The movie’s in forty-five minutes, so we should probably head.”

“Alright,” Koutarou says. Kuroo’s arm around his shoulder is helping the heavy weight in his stomach, making it a little easier to breathe around. “Have you guys seen all the previous ones?”

“No,” Kuroo says, at the same time that Akaashi says, “yeah.”

“I haven’t,” Koutarou says. His elbow bumps Akaashi’s as they start walking, but neither of them pull away. “Tell me about them, ‘Kaashi.”

Akaashi sighs, but opens his mouth to start summarising the superpowered escapades of the last couple of years.

*

The movie is good. It’s easier to pay attention to than Koutarou expected, and whenever he does lose focus, a funny one-liner quickly pulls him back in.

He sits between Akaashi and Kuroo in the cinema. It’s an accident.

Neither of them asked him to move.

*

"I really don't think I need this," Koutarou tells Kuroo on the phone. "Seriously. I'm, I'm - I'm better! You know? I went to the movie with you guys, and then we went out for food and everything, and it was a great time."

"It was," Kuroo says. "You should still go."

Koutarou sighs. "Man..."

"You've already paid, haven't you?"

"No," Koutarou says. "But I'm already up and moving. There's no point in going back inside now, I guess."

"Good! I've got a thing, but Keiji's free if you wanna hang out with someone afterwards."

"I don't know," Koutarou says, sucking thoughtfully on a mint as he gets in the taxi. "Maybe?"

"Mm. You decide," Kuroo says.

"You're letting me decide something for once?"

"Don't get smart," Kuroo says, and then pauses. "Do you mind? I don't wanna be mothering you. It's seemed like you needed a push, is all."

Koutarou sighs, staring out the window of the taxi. "No, you're right," he says after a while. "Thanks, man."

"You're welcome."

"I'm gonna hang up now. I'll message you afterwards."

"Okay. Good luck!"

"Thanks. I'll need it," Koutarou says darkly and hangs up.

*

He messages Akaashi afterwards.  _ Hey. Come over 2 mine? I'll b home in 30. _

_ OK, _ Akaashi replies after Koutarou's hunted down a taxi and is on his way home.  _ How was it? _

_ Weird _ , Koutarou types first, then erases it and types,  _ good _ . Then he erases that too and writes  _ It made me feel empty, _ but that feels too pathetic, so he ends up not replying at all.

His head hurts. His heart hurts, too, but in a good way.

*

Akaashi rings his doorbell a few minutes after Koutarou's come in. "Hey," Koutarou says when he opens the door for him, yawning into his hand.

"Hi," Akaashi says. He looks at Koutarou's jacket, shoes and bag where they're strewn over the floor, but doesn't comment. "Are you tired?"

"Mm," Koutarou says. "I was just thinking reality TV and pizza." He realises now, belatedly, how stupid it was to invite Akaashi over when he didn't even have anything fun planned - and he doesn't have the energy to suggest something better, even though he should at least find a good movie, or cook, or do something special.

"That sounds good," Akaashi says, and sits down at the couch. He raises an eyebrow when Koutarou doesn't join him, staring up at him. "Is there something wrong?"

"I'm sorry I'm such a fucking loser," Koutarou says quickly. "I've just spent a whole fuckin' hour talking about how shit I am and how - bad I am at treating, treating people that I care about and shit and - treating myself, and what the fuck, here I am just inviting you over for reality TV and pizza, you don't even like that stuff!"

"I don't mind," Akaashi says.

"But I'm a fucking  _ idiot," _ Koutarou says, pulling at his shirt, "I don't even - I just feel empty now, and I'm bad company, and I don't even know why I - I just wanted to see you, or something, and Kuroo mentioned that you were free, so -"

_ "Calm down," _ Akaashi says. He looks worried again, like he did those weeks ago when he kissed him, and for an absurd moment Koutarou hopes that Akaashi will kiss him again to make him calm down, but that's mean, that's a bad thought, Kuroo - Kuroo doesn't deserve that, and neither does Akaashi, he's not some gambit to be passed back and forth -

Koutarou squeaks as Akaashi wraps his arms around him and pulls him down onto the couch, making him sit next to Akaashi.

"Breathe," Akaashi commands, "to my count. Come on. Inhale. One, two, three.."

Koutarou does as he says, breath heaving and faltering in odd, jerky movements of his chest, but eventually it evens out, and he falls back against the couch with a groan. "I hate that..."

"Does it happen often?" Akaashi asks softly.

"No." Koutarou pauses, then amends, "That wasn’t a, uh, a proper... You didn’t need to do the counting thing.”

“Oh,” Akaashi says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, it was nice,” Koutarou says. “But it happened earlier. It was - hard. The session."

"I'm sure.” Akaashi pauses. “You're brave for going."

Koutarou blinks away sudden, unbidden tears, laughing a little. "That's a first."

"What, saying you're brave? You are."

Koutarou swallows and shrugs.

"You are," Akaashi says again, firmly. "It's... I..." Koutarou sits up and looks at him. It's not often Akaashi is lost for words, and Koutarou's already half worried that he's done something wrong, that he's hurt Akaashi in some way that he's only revealing now. "To put it this way, I looked up what to do during those situations. Like those just now."

"Attacks?" Koutarou says with a wince. “That's not - you don't have to..."

"I  _ want to," _ Akaashi says forcefully, then he looks away and clears his throat. "I care about you, like I said. And I realised... that my first instincts may not have been - the most appropriate."

The kiss, Koutarou realises through what feels like a daze. He's talking about the kiss. "Don't," he says quickly, "we don't have to talk about this, please -"  _ I can't bear to hear you say you regret it -  _ "let's just have pizza and watch something."

Akaashi hesitates. "Okay," he says finally, and Koutarou lets out a relieved breath.

"Thanks." For - everything, he almost continues, but it doesn't feel necessary somehow, and it's too much effort to bare himself once again. It's easier just to let it lie.

*

“When did you first start feeling like this?” the doctor asks. Her name is Fujiwara. Koutarou keeps forgetting it, and he looks at her name tag again and again.

“Uh… I don’t know. Maybe - eight months ago…? It kinda - we went on tour, and then it went away again, but it was… there, I guess. I don’t know.”

“I see,” she says. “And during these months, have you ever felt… down? Like you might want to harm yourself?”

Koutarou opens and shuts his mouth. Is there a right answer for this? “Not really,” he says. “Just, y’know. Sort of… blegh.”

“The way you’re describing it doesn’t sound ‘sort of blegh’, Bokuto-san,” Fujiwara says. “You said you suffer from regular panic attacks, that your concentration is severely reduced, that you easily forget things, and that you have trouble with either oversleeping or not sleeping at all. And you have no appetite. Correct?”

“When you put it like that,” Koutarou starts uncomfortably. “It sounds kinda… bad, I guess.”

“It is bad,” she says, but not unkindly. “You fit the criteria for moderate to severe depression.”

“Oh.”

It sounds different, coming out of a doctor’s mouth. It’s harder to explain away, even though Koutarou is still sure he’s lying, that he’s faking it - after all, he  _ can _ do stuff, it’s just really hard. But maybe that’s just the way it’s supposed to be, and he’s the only one who hasn’t got the memo.

“I mean - I, uh, I went to see someone, and that’s… pretty much their conclusion too.”

Fujiwara’s eyebrows raise momentarily. “I see,” she says. “You didn’t mention that you’d seen a therapist.”

Koutarou shrugs. “Didn’t seem important,” he mumbles.

She sighs and moves some things around on her desk. “I am going to prescribe you a daily 20mg dose of paroxetine. Do you know what an SSRI is, Bokuto-san?”

“Uh… no. Sorry.”

“It’s a common type of anti-depressant. An SSRI, or selective seratonin reuptake inhibitor, helps your brain send seratonin forward instead of reuptaking it.” She explains more, with charts and diagrams, but Koutarou finds it hard to focus - he’s going to go on pills.

Medication.

For life? No, no way. He’s not like that. Wasn’t there an ad campaign that said depression was like a cold? So it’ll only be for a couple of months, maybe.

“...it’ll take four to six weeks for the medication to take effect,” Fujiwara says.

“Over a  _ month?” _

She nods, looking vaguely apologetic. “During this time, you might feel an increase in suicidal thoughts. If you do, please book an appointment with me immediately or talk to your therapist.”

“How long - how long will I be on them?” Koutarou stutters. His mouth is dry from fear and he feels nauseous, like he’s on a boat and the floor keeps rocking under him.

“The minimum we recommend is a year,” Fujiwara says. “Then, depending on how you’re feeling about it, we can start taking you off them.”

“A year,” Koutarou says. The thought is dizzying. What’s he going to tell everyone? Should he tell anyone at all? What about his parents? What about - god, he’s going to be on pills, he’s going to take pills every  _ day _ , will he even be the same person on them? What if it just mutes everything? What if they don’t work? What if they don’t work because he’s faking all of this, because he’s not depressed at all, he’s just some idiot who can’t act the way he’s supposed to?

“Bokuto-san,” Fujiwara says. She’s frowning and holding out a paper. “Here is two weeks’ medication. You can redeem this in the pharmacy downstairs. Please book an appointment with me in two weeks so we can talk about the effects and how you’re feeling.”

“Okay,” Koutarou says. He takes the paper with numb fingers. “Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you for coming in, Bokuto-san.” Fujiwara gives him a small smile, and for the first time she looks young. Maybe she’s even younger than him. God, that’s typical, isn’t it, just another testament to what a fuck-up he is. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Yup.”

Koutarou walks out the door; takes the lift down to the pharmacy; gets his prescription and hides it in his bag, pulling out his phone. “Can I come over?” he asks Kuroo the moment he picks up, words jumbled and rushed, heart beating fast and irregular in his chest.

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “Keiji’s here, but please come. We both wanna see you, so don’t worry about intruding. Are you okay?”

“I’m officially a - a -  _ fuck, _ I don’t even know what to call it, they gave me pills, Kuroo, this is so fucked up and hard and I don’t know what to do, what if they change me, what if they - they do something to my brain or make it worse? She said they might make it worse at the start, so how the fuck are they gonna make me better?”

Kuroo exhales, the sound crackling through the phone line. “Damn, man,” he says. “I don’t know. It’s a good thing, though. I don’t think they’re gonna change you, just help you be like you used to be.”

“Hah,” Koutarou says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Funny. I’ll be over in twenty.”

“I’ll see you soon. Bokuto - it’s gonna be okay.”

Koutarou hits end call and stops, leaning against the wall and holding his phone to his face as he breathes, eyes closed. He always hated taking pills, used to choke on them and get the taste stuck in his throat for hours. He guesses he has to learn to like it now.

*

“Hey,” Kuroo says when he lets him in. Koutarou shrugs in reply and steps inside when Kuroo moves away, pulling off his coat and hanging it on the wall.

“Hey.”

“Keiji’s inside. He said you guys were watching some show last time? We could do that.”

Koutarou sighs. “Yeah… that sounds good.”

Kuroo smiles a little and wraps an arm around his shoulders, bringing him into his side. “Don’t look so miserable,” he says. “This is a good thing. I’m proud of you.”

“Feels weird,” Koutarou says, then, “I don’t really wanna talk about it.”

“Alright,” Kuroo says amiably, leading him into the living room. Akaashi is sitting on the couch, eyes meeting Koutarou’s when they enter. “Not gonna force you.”

“Thanks,” Koutarou says softly. Kuroo sits him down between the two of them - odd, but Koutarou doesn’t have the energy to protest. It feels a little claustrophobic.

“Do you guys wanna listen to some music?” Kuroo asks. Akaashi and Koutarou both nod, and Kuroo gets up to plug his phone into his stereo. He puts on something loud and distracting at first, something that makes Koutarou’s skin feel too tight, but then he switches to a softer melody Koutarou has heard before, reassuring in its familiarity even though he doesn’t quite recognise it.

“Have you played this before?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah - well, I mean, I played it in the bus sometimes, when we were on tour. It’s  _ Matchsticks.” _

“Oh… yeah, that must’ve been where I’ve heard it before, then.” It explains why the song feels kind of musty and contained, rolling on tirelessly. It’s a good song, good band, but it makes Koutarou feel even heavier than he did already, sinking down into the couch.

“I like it,” Akaashi says. He has moved, or maybe Koutarou has moved - either way they’re close enough that Koutarou can imagine the heat from his arm, flowing out of him and being absorbed into Koutarou’s skin. Maybe if they let him sit like this, consuming warmth like a plant that’s finally been put on a windowsill, he’ll feel normal again. Maybe this is all he needs.

His head tips back to lean against the back of the couch, staring up at the white ceiling in Kuroo’s flat. Kuroo sits down on his other side, and he’s warm too, and maybe Koutarou is a wilting flower after all, because he’s suddenly filled with longing - longing to remain like this forever, longing to have Kuroo and Akaashi closer, longing for everything to be okay.

They sit in silence for a while. Comfortable silence, or so Koutarou thinks, but he doesn’t feel in touch with the world, so maybe it’s horrible and awkward and he’s the only one who can’t tell.

“Do you guys like hanging out with me?” he asks. “Even though I’m sad and tired all the time.”

The ceiling doesn’t respond, but Akaashi does, touching Koutarou’s arm. “Yes,” he says.

“You’re still you,” Kuroo says. “You’re just going through some shit right now.”

“What if it doesn’t go away?” Koutarou asks. It’s hard to swallow. The ceiling is an endless white, spreading out to each corner and then further on into infinity.

“It will,” Kuroo says. He sounds calm. He sounds like he’s saying the truth - at least, he  _ thinks _ he’s saying the truth.

“What if I’m not actually anything, though? What if I’m just a bad person and there’s nothing wrong with me?”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi starts softly, then grips Koutarou’s arm again. “You’re not. You’re not supposed to be feeling this way. What does your therapist say?”

Koutarou sighs. “She says you’re right,” he mumbles, eyes closing. “But maybe I’ve just tricked her too.”

“Dude,” Kuroo says, and he’s definitely smiling a little, Koutarou can tell even without opening his eyes. How inappropriate, Koutarou thinks, but it almost makes him smile too. “You’re not that good a liar. You’re a shit liar, actually. You think you could fool someone whose job it is to see through people when they’re lying?”

Koutarou blinks. He opens his eyes again. “Maybe not.”

“Definitely not,” Kuroo says gently. “It’s going to be okay, Bokuto.”

Akaashi hums in agreement. Koutarou studies the ceiling, silent. “You're good people.”

“So are you,” Akaashi says, and Koutarou snorts, something sharp that turns into a wheezing laugh, shaking his head.

“We have that thing tomorrow, right?” he asks. “The photo shoot.”

“Yeah,” Akaashi says after a moment. “At nine.”

Koutarou groans, sitting up. “That's so early.”

“You're spoiled,” Kuroo says with a laugh. “Most people have work at eight, you know.”

“I'm not most people,” Koutarou huffs, making Kuroo laugh again. “Do you guys wanna know the most fucked up thing about this whole thing?”

“What?” Akaashi asks.

“When I go on these -” Koutarou lifts his bag and rustles it, “I can't drink anymore.”

Kuroo inhales. Akaashi is silent. “Glad to hear it,” Kuroo says finally. “It'll help.”

“Maybe,” is all Koutarou says. He wants to say something petty and bitter, like  _ you don't know what it's like  _ or  _ alcohol is the only thing that helps _ or  _ fuck you and your good intentions,  _ but he doesn't have the energy for it. He doesn't have the energy to fight anymore. He doesn't have the willpower either - every meeting with a professional is like acid on the foundation of knowledge that he'd laid, slowly eroding away what he thought was true.

One: there is something wrong. Two: it won't always be this way. Three: there's hope.

Akaashi squeezes his arm silently.  “Bokuto and I were watching a show,” he tells Kuroo. “It's Korean, but it's funny.”

“Brainless,” Koutarou says, mocking himself, but Kuroo only smiles.

“Sounds good.” He picks up his tablet from the coffee table. “Do you remember what it's called?”

*

“I don't deserve people being patient with me,” Koutarou tells his therapist. “They cut me too much slack.”

“Is that your decision to make?” she asks.

“I'm tricking them,” he says. “They think I'm good. I'm not.”

“You can't choose how they feel about you,” she says. “You have to trust them. You have to trust that they are taking care of themselves, like you're learning to take care of yourself.”

“I hate myself,” Koutarou says. “I hate this.”

She doesn't reply.

*

It doesn't get worse. But it doesn't get better, either. The photo shoot crawls by - more meetings and greetings and two interviews that Koutarou mumbles his way through. Kuroo and Akaashi keep inviting him over, in something that's presumably half Samaritan and half pity, but Koutarou is too lonely to turn them down, and it helps.

Watching them together used to be like a hand wrapping delicately around his heart, squeezing and squeezing in a parody of an embrace, but it doesn't hurt like that anymore. It's become a wistful sort of ache, something that Koutarou lets himself quietly nurse whenever he sees them touch, exchange a glance. It feels like a bruise where there used to be a scab, like he can press down into it and feel the reassuring throb of pain, the tender hurt.

Some days he fools himself into thinking it's nice. He never could let a wound be, and there's no one to wrap this one up in plasters and pinch his cheek if he tries to peel them off. 

Some days he doesn’t need to fool himself.

*

Because that’s the thing; that’s the thing with medication, with therapy. It isn’t a plaster or even a bandage, it’s just recuperation so slow that Koutarou doesn’t notice it until it’s been six weeks and he’s back at the doctor’s office, and she says, “I’d like to see you again in a month, unless you have anything pressing.”

“A month?” Koutarou blinks. He’s been coming here once a week; once every other week. “That’s a long time.”

“If you think it’s too long, just book another appointment,” she says. “But you’re doing very well, Bokuto-san.”

“I am?”

She gives him a small smile. “Don’t you think so?”

He hasn’t thought about it. There’s been so much else to focus on lately - he’s finally started writing the song with Tsukishima, he’s been reaching out to the girl band that stole his heart, he’s been seeing Kuroo and Akaashi. There’s been no time to reflect. “I guess,” he says. “Yeah.”

“If there is anything, though,” she says, “feel free to make an appointment.”

“I will,” Koutarou says. “Thank you.”

He gets up, takes his stuff, leaves. On the way home, he thinks.

It’s true that it’s easier to get out of bed these days. Most days.

“It’s, like, obviously it’s gonna be different now, I have stuff to look forward to,” he tells Akaashi on the phone when he calls him, putting his keys on the table and discarding his jacket. “So that’s bound to make me happier, ya know?”

“You’re able to look forward to things now, though,” Akaashi says on the other end. “Were you able to before?”

“Dunno. Everything kinda sucked.”

“There you go.” Akaashi sounds a touch amused, and the pitch reverberates down Koutarou’s arm from the phone, making him smile and feel warm. “It’s okay that you’re doing better. I’m proud of you.”

_ “Dude,  _ there’s nothing to be proud of!”

“There is.”

Koutarou huffs.

“We should celebrate,” Akaashi says. “Let’s go out for a meal.”

“Just the two of us?” Koutarou asks, some old, worn thread of hope wrapping around his heart.

“I was thinking all of us,” Akaashi says. “You and I, and Tetsurou, and Yamaguchi and Tsukishima.”

“Oh. Yeah, that sounds good.” And it does. Disappointment doesn't hit as heavily anymore. It used to be a wrecking ball, but now the longing has turned into something like rain - soft, but relentlessly falling. 

It's still worth it, though. And it's okay. No one else notices. “Are you still coming over on Saturday?” Akaashi asks.

“Mm, yeah,” Koutarou replies, distracted. “I'll be there. Can't miss this week's episode, et cetera, et cetera. I gotta go - I'll talk to you later?”

“Okay,” Akaashi says. He might have said something else, but Koutarou hangs up before he can, feeling childish and petulant.

Maybe it's not completely okay, but it is what it is. He'll move on.

It just takes time, that's all.

*

“This is where you wanna go?” Tsukishima looks at the izakaya, frowning. “It looks…”

“Rustic?” Yamaguchi supplies. 

“Disgusting, actually.”

Koutarou shakes his head. “That just means there's fewer people to fight with about tables! Come on, you'll change your tune as soon as you taste some of it.”

“Wait, is this  _ the place?”  _ Kuroo asks, impressed.

“The place?” Akaashi repeats.

“When Bokuto first moved here, he spent probably a month trying to find this one amazing place he'd eaten at. I thought you'd made it up!”

“I'm glad you remember,” Koutarou says with a wide grin. “And no, I didn't. I found it again a week ago when I was out for a run!”

“The food might have changed, you know,” Akaashi warns cautiously.

Koutarou shakes his head. “They wouldn't do that to me,” he says firmly. “Now let's go eat!”

All of them - Yamaguchi, Tsukishima, Kuroo, Akaashi and Koutarou - trek into the restaurant, and in no time they're seated at a table, Koutarou excitedly running his eyes over the menu. “Do you think they remember me? I felt like we really had a connection, you know.”

“How long has it been, five years?” Kuroo says.

“What, are you saying it matters? I'm unforgettable!” Koutarou looks at Kuroo, outraged, and Akaashi starts laughing - after a moment, Tsukishima does too, snickering into his hand. Koutarou smiles, brow knitting with confusion, and looks at Akaashi. “Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing,” Akaashi says, laughter fading to a faint smile. “It's just good to hear you joke again, Bokuto.”

Koutarou blinks and winces. “Ah…”

“I haven’t missed it,” Tsukishima says. “Your jokes are terrible.”

“Eh!” Koutarou reaches over to hit the back of his head, but he’s interrupted by a waiter approaching their table, and he sits back down with a grumble.

“And a bottle of wine for the table,” Koutarou says when they order, ignoring Tsukishima’s look. “The house red, if you please.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Akaashi says quietly as the waiter goes back to the kitchen. Immediately, Koutarou’s hackles raise and his hands ball into fists - but there’s no threat here. No one’s attacking him.

Koutarou exhales and lowers his defenses. “Just one bottle for all of us,” he says. “I haven’t drank since - this whole thing started. I want to celebrate.”

“Okay,” Akaashi says dubiously. Tsukishima is glaring, Koutarou thinks, but he doesn’t look over.

“It’s  _ fine,” _ he says, and the word catches in his throat. It’s true, though, and he forces it out. “It’s fine now. I promise.”

After ordering, Kuroo clears his throat and sits up. “I’m not going to make a big deal out of it, don’t worry,” he tells Koutarou, “but I just wanted to say that I’m proud of all of us for getting through this year.”

“It’s not even December yet,” Koutarou complains loudly. “Shut up, you sap!”

“It’s  _ almost,” _ Kuroo insists, “and that’s good enough for me. And if you stopped complaining I’d be finished speaking sooner, so we both lose when you open that big mouth of yours, huh?”

Koutarou gasps. “Rude.” 

Under the table, Akaashi touches his knee in consolation - and then his hand stays there, palm warm even through Koutarou’s thick jeans.

“It’s been a long year,” Kuroo says. “We were on tour… well, not you, Yamaguchi, but with how much Tsukki has talked of you it felt like you were right there with us.”

“Ha, thanks,” Yamaguchi says, but he’s grinning. Tsukishima is scowling at Kuroo, who bares his teeth in something resembling a smile.

“Anyway, all I wanted to say is that I’m proud of us for getting through this year, I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished, and I know that next year we’re going to work even harder and do even better.” He’s looking at Akaashi as he says it, eyes soft and fond, and Koutarou’s own are stinging suddenly - but then Kuroo’s gaze shifts to him, the same feeling present, and it’s nothing Koutarou could ever be worthy of. He looks down.

Silently, Akaashi squeezes his knee.

“Me too,” Tukishima says, when it’s clear that Kuroo is done. It surprises Koutarou enough to look up. Tsukishima rarely admits to anyone performing well, and through the years Koutarou has known him, he has always been allergic to praise. “And next year will be better.”

As the food arrives and they begin to eat, Koutarou’s bones slowly start to loosen, the tightness that’s been settled there for so long fading away with the wine, the food and the company. The alcohol is bitter on his tongue, familiar like an eager friend, but he’s not drinking to win a competition, to outrun the dark so he can numb himself in time - rather, this is something else entirely. He laughs a lot, snorting inelegantly into his hands at Kuroo’s bad jokes and the faces Tsukishima pulls in return, Akaashi’s dry comments mercilessly picking Kuroo apart.

Koutarou gets roped into a heated discussion with Tsukishima about tube amplifiers versus transistors - he's mostly playing devil's advocate, because it's really funny to see how red Tsukishima’s face gets when Koutarou says it all sounds the same. Eventually Yamaguchi has to beg them to stop, looking panicked, and Akaashi distracts Koutarou by asking about the details of a TV show he used to love. He lets it happen, smiling easily at Akaashi as he explains.

This feels a little like family, the small crowd gathered around a table, everyone poking fun and laughing, listening to each other and smiling. It makes Koutarou feel warm and settled, and the mood stays with him throughout the dinner, even when they step out into the chilly winter air.

“We're going this way,” Tsukishima says.

“Thank you for tonight,” Yamaguchi says. He's not leaning into Tsukishima, but they still look like two jigsaw pieces, the way they perfectly fit together. Koutarou knows Tsukishima says they aren't together, but maybe they're something else just as good. He doesn't care much as long as they're happy, and he tells them as much. 

“I didn't think you'd had that much to drink,” Tsukishima replies.

Koutarou huffs, offended. “I haven't! I'm just a nice person!”

Tsukishima sighs. “I know,” he says. “Good night, Bokuto. Kuroo, Akaashi, I'll see you.”

“Bye,” Kuroo says, and the three of them watch Tsukishima and Yamaguchi walk away. “Fuck, man, I'm freezing.”

“You two wanna come to mine?” Koutarou asks, already starting to walk. “It's not far.”

“If you're offering,” Akaashi says, and Koutarou grins at him.

“Aw, ‘Kaashi, you're always welcome! You should know that by now.”

“And what about me, eh?”

“You'd better forget my address, asshole,” Koutarou says, and laughs merrily at the dirty look Kuroo sends him. “No, no, you're welcome too. Of course, dude. How could you not be?”

“That's better,” Kuroo says, smiling. Koutarou bumps their shoulders together.

“I meant to thank you, actually,” he finds himself saying, without really thinking it through. “For everything, but especially for making me do shit. Both of you, but - yeah. Kuroo. Thanks for forcing me out of the house and everything. It's been… really good for me.”

“Oh,” Kuroo says. He looks odd for a moment, the cold light from the streetlamps casting strange shadows over his face. “You're welcome, Bokuto. You'd do the same for me.”

“And you!” Koutarou hurries to add, turning to include Akaashi. “You too, if there's anything - and for, for seeing me, thank you, and for just generally… yeah.”

Akaashi laughs a little, eyes warm. “You're welcome,” he says. “You deserve it.”

Koutarou flushes and laughs, shaking his head. “Something like that, I guess.”

“You know,” Kuroo says, “it took me a couple years to notice, but you're kinda strangely put together, dude. You're really modest about some things, but other things you won't shut up about.”

“Damn, Kuroo, if you're gonna be like that, why are you making me pay for a professional? I could just sit on your couch for an hour and you'd do the same job.”

Akaashi laughs again, surprised, while Kuroo hits him. “I'm complimenting you! You have hidden depths, is what I'm saying. And you shouldn't be modest about what a good guy you are, because you are.”

“Not you too,” Koutarou groans, face red. “If you don't stop, I'm going to run all the way home and lock you out.”

“Ugh, no thanks,” Kuroo says. “I’m too full to chase you.”

“The restaurant was very good,” Akaashi says.

Koutarou perks up. “Wasn’t it? I knew you guys would like it. It’s got all those spices you like.”

“That’s thoughtful.”

“I’m a thoughtful guy,” he replies immediately. “Wait - no! Not more compliments!”

Kuroo laughs loudly. “You played yourself!”

_ “No,” _ Koutarou whines, shifting to hide between Akaashi. “‘Kaashi, save me.”

“From what?” Akaashi asks, amused. “I was the one who started, remember?”

“I can’t trust anyone,” Koutarou wails. “You’re all traitors.”

For a moment, traipsing up the stairs to his building just ahead of Akaashi and Kuroo, he feels like something bright and newly born - something with potential, something that can go places, something that can  _ do  _ things. For the first time in a long, long time, he can remember the feeling of stepping on stage for the first time, the rush that came with it, and it doesn’t feel so distant anymore.

He unlocks the door and leads Kuroo and Akaashi in, talking about something or other - he’s not paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth, but it’s okay. He wants Kuroo and Akaashi to know about everything, every thought he’s ever had, and if they want him to shut up they’d just say so. His guitar is still leaning against the couch from where he was messing around with it earlier, and he sprawls on the couch next to it, letting out a relieved sigh. “‘S good to be back home.”

Akaashi hums, taking a seat next to him.

“You guys want anything? I can - I have, uh… snacks and shit…”

“No, it’s fine,” Kuroo says, sitting down too. “I’m so satisfied right now.”

“Me too,” Koutarou sighs. “Real good.”

There's silence for a moment, long and comfortable. “What are you playing?” Akaashi asks, gently breaking the quiet and nodding towards the guitar.

“Ah, nothin’ much,” Koutarou says, before he hesitates. “I've been… working on a little something. I can show you guys later. It's not for the band or anything, though.”

“That's still really good,” Kuroo says. “I wanna hear it.”

“Later,” Koutarou says again, waving a hand. His heart beats a little faster at the thought, even though he's been judged on his music so many times that it shouldn't even faze him at all anymore - but this feels different. Scarier.

“Actually…” Kuroo looks over at Akaashi, wetting his lips. “Could you go grab me some water? I have, uh, something to say.”

“Okay,” Akaashi says, brow knitting lightly as he gets up and leaves for the kitchen. Koutarou looks after him, confused.

“What's going on?”

“Outside, when you thanked me,” Kuroo starts, and then stops again. “It was really sweet of you. But - I mean, yeah, I’ve been helping you ‘cause you need it and also everyone deserves help, but I also wanted… God, how to phrase this…”

“No,” Koutarou says quickly, pulling on his shirt in worry, “you don't have to say anything, this is fine, let's just leave it -”

“I need to get this off my chest,” Kuroo interrupts firmly.

“Don’t,” Koutarou pleads, blood thudding in his ears, anxiety making his whole body tense. He has no idea what Kuroo is going to say, but it’s going to be bad, it’s got to be bad, it’s something serious, so it’s going to be bad -

“Bokuto, are you okay?”

“Please, I don’t wanna - are you going to say you hate me? Or something? Or I’ve been - bad this whole time, or haha, you knew I was just faking it, because I really don’t think - but you’re probably right -”

“Shit,” Kuroo says, “okay, calm down, I’m not thinking any of that! I wanted you to get help because I believe in you, and I - I like you, and I want you to feel better.”

“Then what’s the thing? What’s the big thing, what’s the - hey, Akaashi, I need to talk to Kou alone, what’s the scary - what’s the scary thing -”

“I like you,” Kuroo says. “That’s the scary thing.”

Air escapes Koutarou in a rush. “What?”

“I like you,” Kuroo says again. “A lot.”

“What the  _ fuck,” _ Koutarou says. It feels like his brain is shutting down, like it’s collapsing under the weight of his thoughts, unable to make sense of any of them. “You like me?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says, and he looks hesitant and scared now, but Koutarou can’t even start to process it, can’t find the mental guidelines on how to react to a situation like this. “That’s part of it. I didn’t feel like you praising me was right when I’ve been so selfish… I was hoping that when things started going better, maybe the three of us could…”

“No,” Koutarou says, the word scraping in his throat. “No.” This can’t be real, he’s - this isn’t, he’s misunderstanding somehow, this is a prank or a daydream, a mistake. His eyes are stinging.

“No?” Kuroo looks - Koutarou doesn’t know. He can’t look at him.

“I can’t have this,” Koutarou says, strangled and hurt, “this isn’t - I can’t have this, Kuroo, I don’t -”

“Bokuto,” Kuroo says softly and pulls him close to him, and Koutarou’s hands fist in his shirt, and he’s so  _ tired  _ of this mess he’s become, he thought he was better than this now, but he can’t - he doesn’t deserve this, he’s built an entire fundament on the truth that Akaashi and Kuroo will always be something else, and he can’t lose that. “Bokuto, hey, it’s okay…”

“I’m assuming it’s safe to come back now,” Akaashi starts as he comes back from the kitchen, two glasses of water in hand, but he stops dead at the sight of them. “What’s going on? Bokuto?”

Koutarou shakes his head, burrowing further into Kuroo.

“I asked him to date us and he started crying,” Kuroo tells Akaashi.

“I’m not  _ crying,” _ Koutarou says wetly, muffled into Kuroo’s shirt. “Just gimme a second.”

“Is this bad or good?” Akaashi asks warily, coming to perch on the couch beside Koutarou - close enough that he can hear him clearly, but not so close that Koutarou can feel him without moving.

“I don’t know,” Kuroo says.

“I thought you were going to wait. I told you to wait.”

“I couldn’t!” Kuroo defends. “I felt like a hypocrite, I don’t want to be some guy with ulterior motives.”

“You could have waited a little longer,” Akaashi says. He sounds angry now, and it takes a second for Koutarou to realise that he’s angry on his behalf, he’s angry for him, he’s not angry at Koutarou for wanting this, he - he wants this too.

Koutarou sits up. He wipes his eyes, even though they’re dry. He digs his fingers into his thighs and he takes a deep, deep breath. He grounds himself.

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo is telling him now, “Keiji’s right, I should’ve waited.”

Koutarou opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.  _ Yes, _ he wants to say, and  _ no, _ and  _ you should’ve waited until you knew better. _ “Can I play something for you?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says, and Akaashi nods. They both look confused, and Kuroo looks scared, but there’s no other way for Koutarou to make them understand, there’s only this. He gets the guitar from where it’s resting, picks it up over his lap and has to fiddle with the tuning for a moment to calm himself, hands shaking with nerves. Everything feels painfully important as he lines his fingers up, inhales and starts to play.

It’s soft and precarious in the beginning, his digits stumbling over notes that they breezed through only hours earlier, and parts of him want to stop and hide, ashamed that this is something he’s showing them, that this sad, simple song is offered up as any kind of explanation. Koutarou can’t look up at them, so he looks at his own fingers running over the strings instead, looks at the tight coil of steel and the grooves in between where dirt gathers, and the song builds itself up around him. What used to be a tangle of chords is unraveling into something more coherent, something lonely and pained, but there’s still pangs of major chords and sevenths, of gratitude, of contentedness.

The pedal note is still there, a grieving note that grates against the melody, but now the dissonance is moving, the distance that seemed insurmountable at first shrinking as the notes grow closer and closer until they’re one with each other, a brief flourishing of chords before the song fades, tapers off with a soft minor chord.

Koutarou doesn’t dare look up when he finishes. He stays crouched over his guitar, defensive and still.

“Wow,” Kuroo says finally. “That was gorgeous.”

“It’s so sad,” Akaashi says softly.

Koutarou looks up and then back down, shrugging. “I know - it’s not much, it’s not, it’s not for the band or anything, I just - it’s the only thing that I’ve been able to…”

“You know,” Kuroo says, “sometimes I forget that you have classical training. I’m envious of you.”

“Envious of me?”

“Yeah,” he says. He’s looking directly at Koutarou now, and Koutarou can’t look away. “No one else could write something like that.”

“That’s bullshit,” Koutarou says uncomfortably, finally tearing his gaze away. “Anyone could.”

“They really couldn't.”

“That's not the  _ point,”  _ he snaps. His guitar feels fragile under his hands. “I wanted - but whatever. Forget it.”

“No,” Kuroo says, frustrated. “No, Bokuto, that's not what I'm - that's not what I'm trying to say. What happened to us? We used to be so good at communicating.”

“Oh, great, another thing I did wrong!” Koutarou says angrily. “Just keep listing them, please, that's just perfect -”

“You're  _ special,”  _ Kuroo says loudly. “I love you. And I love your music, because it's you. That's what I was trying to say.”

Koutarou inhales. He tries to speak, but his breath falters and sticks in his throat, ready for him to choke on. “You make no sense,” he gets out, and the heaviness is there again, settling down on his shoulders and his chest and his back and why is this so  _ hard, _ what the fuck made him like this, why is it so hard to comprehend that someone might wanna waste their time loving something hollow like him?

“It’s okay if you need time,” Akaashi says. “We’ll wait.”

“Why would you,” Koutarou says. “Why wait for me? I’m not going to - what if I don’t get better?”

“You will,” Kuroo says firmly. “I’m sure you will.”

“I’m not worth that hope,” Koutarou says. “I didn’t even - I got depressed for no reason, nothing even happened, I’m just… A loser.”

“That’s not true,” Akaashi says. “And it doesn’t matter how you got ill. You are. But you’re already getting better, Bokuto.”

“Shit,” Koutarou says suddenly. He stands up in a flash, filled with fitful bursts of energy, and starts pacing in front of the couch. “This is so messed up, there’s so much going on, I’m - so you like me? You both like me?”

Akaashi and Kuroo nod without even looking at each other. “You knew that,” Akaashi says.” I wasn’t subtle.”

“Neither was I,” Kuroo says.

“Holy shit,” Koutarou says faintly. His head is spinning, and he feels split in half - one part of him is overjoyed, and the other is terrified, but both of them, both parts of him knew that this was in the air, didn’t he? Akaashi’s right, he wasn’t subtle. Koutarou knew, he knew that this was possible, but at the same time he never thought it was  _ possible,  _ he never thought it would be like this. “I’ve won the lottery,” he tells himself.

“What?”

“It’s like -” he turns to Kuroo and Akaashi, spinning around and gesturing wildly, and his cheeks are aching, he’s smiling, how long has he been smiling? “It’s like - when you enter a contest, you know? And you’re like, I won’t ever win this. And time passes, and you kinda forget about it, and sometimes you remember - oh, yeah, I never heard back from that contest. But it’s probably not going to happen. But then it  _ does.” _

Akaashi frowns, confused, while Kuroo starts laughing. “That makes no sense.”

“That’s what it feels like!” Koutarou says. “This - I’ve been  _ dying _ pining over you, and then it just turns out you’re - you’re into me too? And that’s that?”

“That’s that,” Kuroo says, while Akaashi looks more guarded.

“Like we said, it’s okay to take your time,” he says, and Koutarou shakes his head so hard he almost loses his balance, bouncing with emotion in a way he hasn’t in so, so long.

“No,” he says immediately, and then he pauses and breathes in and says, “maybe a little. We can - go slow? But I want - yeah, I mean, if you’re - if you guys are  _ sure  _ that you’re not joking.”

“We’re sure,” Kuroo says, grinning. “We’re really sure. Keiji?”

Akaashi hesitates, but then he smiles too, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Koutarou starts laughing, big, hitching breaths that take up all the space in his body, and then he finds he can’t stop, curling over with the force of it - it’s like the laughter hooks onto his anxieties and thoughts and pull them out with it, and when he eventually collapses onto the couch between them, he feels free.

“This is fucking wild,” he says, still smiling. Kuroo wraps an arm around him and pulls him down so he’s sprawled over them both, legs over Akaashi’s lap. “This is  _ ridiculous.” _

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “It’s good, though. Right?”

“Definitely,” Koutarou says. It’s hard to calm down. His hands are shaking, just a little. 

Akaashi notices. “Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, this?” Koutarou tries to shrug it off, but Akaashi’s gaze pins him in place, and he looks away. “Yeah. Just… a little overwhelmed. It’s like - this is scary, yeah? I’m - there’s so much at stake, and it’s like, what if it goes wrong, blah, blah, all the anxious shit is like - there, I’m just trying not to pay attention to it.”

“You’re brave,” Akaashi says, and when Koutarou huffs, he smacks Koutarou’s knee gently. “You are.”

“And reckless,” Kuroo supplies. “Not that this is a reckless move, I think we’re gonna have a pretty good handle on it, but…”

“Just jump in, that’s your advice?” Koutarou snorts, but his pulse is steadying now. His shoulders are lowering.

“It’s what you’re best at,” Kuroo replies with a smile.

Koutarou looks back at him, lips quirking, and then looks away with a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

Akaashi doesn’t say anything, but his hand is wrapping around Koutarou’s, and Kuroo’s arm is still around his shoulders. Koutarou breathes in. He’s brave.

This is worth it.

*

Later, after hours of bad TV, Koutarou speaks again. It’s getting late, and he knows that at any moment, Kuroo and Akaashi will untangle themselves from the pile of limbs that they’ve become and say they’ve got to head home. “When did this start?” he asks, voice almost buried by the noises from the street, from the low and rumbling TV.

“I don’t know,” Akaashi says. “What about you, Tetsu?”

“Hm?” Kuroo rouses sleepily, shifting. “What’s that?”

“How long have you liked Koutarou?”

_ Koutarou. _ Given names now, that’s right - it should be obvious, but it still sends a thrill down Koutarou’s spine.

“Oh.” Tetsurou yawns. “I dunno… when did we meet?”

“A long time ago,” Koutarou says.

“Since then.”

“That’s a long time,” Keiji says softly. His hand curls into Koutarou’s hair, fingers gently threading through the strands.

“I know,” Tetsurou says. “I thought you weren’t interested after Hokkaido.”

“What happened in Hokkaido?”

Tetsurou is silent. Koutarou wets his lips, closes his eyes. “We were smoking up with some girl… she was a fan, invited us back to her place. This was before we had any money, so. Then, one thing led to another… I dunno.”

“We kissed,” Tetsurou says. “And then you left.”

“I went to the bathroom!” Koutarou protests quietly, unwilling to break the tacit promise of the evening. “I really needed to pee, and I wanted to brush my teeth ‘cause I thought I tasted like garlic. And then I came back, and you and her were getting dirty.”

Tetsurou pauses. Keiji doesn’t say anything, merely leans into the both of them. “You were gone for half an hour.”

“It’s the only time I’ve been high,” Koutarou sighs. “I got distracted, probably.”

“You two are pretty pathetic,” Keiji murmurs, and it makes Koutarou laugh, a soft sound that fades into the darkness around them.

“Good thing we have you to keep us afloat,” Tetsurou says. He leans up and gives Keiji a kiss, and then Keiji turns to Koutarou - after a heartbeat, a hesitant  _ thump _ of blood rushing to his head, Koutarou leans in and does the same. It’s simple, just skin pressed against skin, but it still makes him grin, blinking slowly in the veil of night.

“I agree,” he says and leans in again - when Keiji smiles, he can feel it against his own lips.

*

 

Epilogue: a month and a half later, New Year’s Eve

_ “First of all!” _ The voice booms from the stage.  _ “Thank you all for coming!” _

Koutarou jumps and cheers along with the rest of the crowd, slinging an arm around Tetsurou. “Aren’t you excited?” he yells.

“I am!” Tetsurou yells back, laughing. “You’re like a kid in a candy store!”

Koutarou punches him and moves over to Keiji, leaning on him instead as he watches the girl at the stage toss her hair and smile.

_ “And a special thank you to Spike - without them we wouldn’t be standing in front of you here today!” _

“That’s us!”

“I know that’s us,” Keiji replies. He’s hard to hear over the roar of the crowd.

“We got them up there!”

_ “You _ got them up there,” Tetsurou butts in, and Koutarou laughs and whoops, clapping loudly. The venue isn’t big enough for the sounds he’s making, the sounds they’re all making, but it still carries the weight of them all - and when the band starts to play, the shush falls over the crowd like a wave, making Koutarou shudder and grin.

The music is just like it was, that time he lay on his living room floor with his phone on his chest and found himself for the length of a youtube video, but this time it’s more, it’s so much more. Live music always gets his blood pumping differently, but it’s not just that, not just the way he can feel the bass in the low of his stomach, right where it’s supposed to be, everything now is so much  _ more _ -

More than he ever thought he could feel, even though this is how it’s supposed to be; life, concerts, feeling, this is how it’s supposed to be. The drums make his ribs vibrate, and when the frontwoman starts to sing, her voice raises goosebumps all along his arms. The lights from the stage saturate the crowd in purples, greens and golds, and he feels bigger than himself when they roll over him, blinding and warm.

“They’re really good,” Tetsurou tells him, and Koutarou nods wildly.

“They’re amazing!”

The crowd is pressing in around him, clapping in beat, and the air smells like sweat and people, bordering on claustrophobic - but instead it’s just exhilarating, because this is what he lives for, this is  _ how _ he lives, loud and unapologetic and chaotic.

_ “I’m going to keep running,” _ she sings, and Koutarou sings it with her, and parts of him are touching Keiji, are touching Tetsurou, and he feels so fucking good.

_ “Keep going, keep going, keep going…” _

The music does indeed keep going, and the whole concert feels like it lasts both ten hours and only a second - Koutarou feels physically exhausted when the encore ends, heart pounding and hair matted with sweat.

“Hey, aren’t you that guy from that band,” someone shouts at Koutarou while he’s clapping at the last exit, and he shakes his head and grins, even though his whole body is singing. It’s ten minutes to midnight, and he should go call his parents, apologise for not being able to make it home, but instead he grabs Keiji and Tetsurou’s arms and tugs them towards the back of the stage.

“Let’s go meet them!”

“We have a party -”

“I wanna tell them how great the show was,” Koutarou says firmly, and Keiji shuts his mouth, smiling.

“You’re a giant fanboy.”

“Can you blame me? That was  _ awesome!” _

“It was,” Tetsurou says.

“A good concert is like an orgasm,” Koutarou begins, and barely dodges the smack from Keiji, laughing loudly. He still feels bright, like the lights from the stage never stopped shining on him.

They wait in line, chatting easily, but then suddenly Tetsurou checks his phone and straightens up, pulling at the other two. “Come with me,” he says firmly.

“But the line -”

“Hey,” he asks the girls waiting next to them, “we’re the guys from Spike. Cool, right? If you keep our place, we’ll sign anything you want.”

“Oh - yes, okay, please,” they say, blinking and wide-eyed, and then Koutarou is being led away from the people by Tetsurou, shooting Keiji a confused look. Keiji just shrugs in return.

“Let’s see, I played here once, if I remember right there’s a storage room right.. Here,” Tetsurou says. He stops and opens a door to a dark room - when he hits the light switch, Koutarou can see that it’s filled with spare chairs and cushions, but otherwise empty.

“Where are we?”

“Nowhere special,” Tetsurou says. He tugs Koutarou close, rests his hands on his hips and nudges his head up just a little, enough to bring their lips together. The kiss is slow and soft, lips gently moving against each other. “Happy new year,” he says when he finally lets Koutarou go. 

Koutarou blinks. “You brought us here just to kiss?”

“They do it in the American movies!” Tetsurou defends. “It’s romantic.”

“Sure, but I wanna meet my favourite band…”

Keiji starts laughing, unsuccessfully trying to hide it behind a sly hand. “It’s cute,” he tells Tetsurou. 

“Is it even midnight?” Koutarou asks.

_ “Yeah,” _ Tetsurou says, offended. “No more kisses for you, mister judgmental.”

“Noo… that’s not fair, come on, give me a kiss…”

“I’ll take one,” Keiji says with a smile, coming up beside Tetsurou. Koutarou watches them kiss, pouting.

“If you don’t kiss someone, you get a year of loneliness, or something,” Tetsurou says when they separate again.

“Well, I definitely don’t want that,” Koutarou says, and changes his tactics, blinking wide puppy eyes at Keiji. “Keiji…”

Keiji sighs and waves a hand. “Come here,” he says long-sufferingly, and Koutarou grins and moves over, kissing Keiji deeply on the mouth as soon as he gets close enough.

“Happy new year to me! No loneliness.”

“No loneliness,” Tetsurou agrees, kissing Koutarou on the cheek. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Koutarou wraps his arms around them. “I’ll have to keep you around, then,” he says. “To make sure.”

“Seems like you might,” Keiji says. “I hope it’s no trouble.”

Koutarou laughs and shakes his head. “I couldn’t let you go even if I wanted to,” he says, quickly kissing Keiji’s temple. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” Keiji says. “That’s what I want.”

“Me too,” Tetsurou says, leaning into both of them. Koutarou beams.

In the distance, he can still hear music. It sounds like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! i wanna say something about bokuto's recovery real quick. first of all: i know i didn't focus much on therapy, because it's a deeply personal experience, but i sincerely believe that that's the most important resource for anyone struggling with anything. a therapist who you connect with is invaluable. secondly: i never set out to write a depression 'fix-it', but reading over this chapter, i noticed that bokuto's turn in mood seems quite sudden. there are several reasons why i wanted to stick with this. there are many depression narratives that portrays depression as unending, and i wanted to offer relief from that, because i think there's a deep-seeded fiction that antidepressants (in particular) don't _really_ help. in my own experience, and from what i've seen second-hand, that's absolutely not true. antidepressants make things much more manageable. lastly, in my experience (once again), just getting things in motion - starting medication, starting therapy, being validated - is a huge part of the road towards getting better, and it makes things better, at least for a while. i wanted to end the fic on that note, because it's a hopeful, optimistic time. i don't want to imply that bokuto is cured, or that he's completely recovered, but i wanted to show that there's good periods too. i hope that makes sense.
> 
> again, thank you very much for reading. i'm on [tumblr](http://keptein.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/tivruskis), please feel free to come talk to me about anything. i know i've said this before, but it bears repeating: if you feel like bokuto in this fic, reach out to someone. the world isn't meant to be like this.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/tivruskis) or [tumblr](http://tivruskis.tumblr.com).


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